


Flexible Parameters

by mikeneko



Category: Max Headroom - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007, recipient:swtalmnd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-07 21:50:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikeneko/pseuds/mikeneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the great sage Murray once said, "You can't fake a tape! Pictures don't lie! At least not until you've assembled them creatively." Edison Carter has a brush with video scandal. Max is determined to annoy. Bryce is self-programmed to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flexible Parameters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/gifts).



20 minutes into the future.

* * *

**(1) 00110001**

_Hey, kids! McGruff, here, the Metrocops McCrime Goat! Let's butt crime, once and for all! If your parents or neighbors have an off-switch on the TV and _you_ report it _right now,_ you'll get a free McGruff McShirt and coupons for soy burgers and crunch fries good at any ZikZak for a limited time only -- Know Future, Know Chow! Call now, kids, Metrocops operators are standing by! This public service announcement was sponsored by your caring network community of Network 23, Network 66, World 1, BBC, Cream Wave, BPS, Bimboviz, Pulsart TV, Gidividi, Breakthru TV, Compu Viz, ZGVNHY, Riotus Rerun, Pornoviz, Tap Zoom TV, Q Station 7, J. Smith TV, Network 144, Yertz Telly . . . _

How long would thousands of networks take? After the scrolling list of networks and the droning recitation had continued for several minutes on the boardroom's massive wall terminal, Ben Cheviot, the chief executive officer of Network 23, felt like its chief sufferer as well. He toggled the switch set into the gleaming wood table. "Sound off, please," he said, acutely aware of the irony. He impartially distributed his glare over the board members sitting down the table. "We paid for _this?_" he asked, incredulous.

"Most of the global networks did contribute to the off-switch campaign," Edwards said apologetically. "If we leave any of them out --"

"Yes, yes, I understand," Cheviot said with a weary wave. "I suppose we could air it after midnight local."

"But Ben, er, there are no children up at that hour," Ashwell said.

"You're not suggesting we put it on during _primetime?_ Our ratings will plummet," Cheviot said.

"During the children's programming block would be more ideal. Why not right before _Missle Mike?_" Lauren suggested.

"At this length, we'd have to preempt _Anne of Three-Mile Island_ entirely to make room for it. No child would sit through it all anyway. No, it's terrible -- send the whole thing back to marketing, and tell them to try again," Cheviot said. "And get that thing off the screen. What's next on the agenda?"

As the screen silently switched to current Network 23 programming, Edwards shuffled his printouts. "Advance planning for the next Global Telelection."

"Ah, yes." Cheviot nodded and sorted out his pipe from his pocket. "So Network 85 blocked two of our newest Netsat launches. Environmental concerns, wasn't it?"

Edwards grimaced and fumed, "So they say. They still only have a relatively minor marketshare, but ever since _their_ candidate won, they've become insufferable. They've used every trick in the system to check the expansion of the major globals. To be honest, it's an embarrassment for 23. _Our_ candidate must win next year."

"Yes, I agree," Ben Cheviot said, tapping the pipe thoughtfully on the table. Network 85's candidate had won the votes fair and square after viewers had channel-switched en masse from the frontrunning candidates on the major networks. Edison Carter, the investigative journalist who was one of 23's most popular on-air personalities, was their most visible public symbol of social responsibility, but that came with a heavy price -- in this case, he'd single-handedly cost 23's candidate the Global Telelection.

The only upside had been that Network 66 had lost as well.

However, Cheviot considered it worth it. A prudent, judicious display of corporate conscience -- or at least the appearance of one -- was good for ratings in the long term. Because Ned Grossberg had never grasped that simple tenet, he'd lost his seat as CEO with 23. That also-ran, Network 66, was welcome to him.

"Are we going to be running Simon Peller for office again?" Ashwell was saying.

"He's a has-been," Edwards said, "what we need is a fresher candidate, one with a more attractive facial profile, or at the very least better hair --"

"Mmmirror mirror on the wall, whoooo has the most at,at,attractive profile of all?" The network feed went blank, flicked, and an instant later was filled with the craggy features of none other than Network 23's literal ghost in the machine. "Can there be _any_ d,d,d,doubt? Our Man Max! Tippicanoe and Headroom, too!" He muttered, "This pub,public service advertisement _and_ c,c,c,candidate was sponsored by Zik,ZikZak."

"Say," Edwards said suddenly, "there's an idea. I wonder if Carter would run for office?"

"He'd be a shoo-in for the votes," Lauren agreed.

"Hey! Hey hey!" Max protested. "Nonono. Not _Edison!_ Me! Max! Me me me! I'd make a t,terrific head of state -- look, I'm aaaalready a head!"

"Max," Cheviot said indulgently, "if I might remind you, you _are_ Edison Carter. Now, if you don't mind, we were in the midst of a --"

"Allllllways the b,bridesmaid, never yanking the bridle." Max sulked dramatically, then winked off the screen.

"He has a point. Who we run doesn't matter, does it?" Ellerby said. "Everyone knows the politicians are interchangable. The only thing that matters is that the viewers vote for Network 23."

"Very true," Cheviot said. "Max's ratings would indicate that the world may well be ready for an artifically constructed candidate -- but _I'm_ not. And I am still the CEO of Network 23." He leaned back in his chair, far larger and more ornate than any of the others, and surveyed his domain: The darkened boardroom, gleaming wood and heavy crystal ashtrays that no one would dare mar by actual use, and the focal point of the room, the huge monitor.

"Of course," the board murmured.

"More to the point, we can't afford a repeat of that last fiasco," Cheviot continued. "Grossberg at Network 66 isn't taking this lying down either; we can assume that he's already scheming. I've had Research and Development looking into the problem." He flicked the toggle set into the table again. "Get Bryce Lynch on the link, please," he said.

The screen faded into a huge view of the back of a head with a small green parrot sitting on top, its claws buried in the brown hair. "Whatever it is, I'm busy!" the figure muttered.

"Bryce. This is Ben Cheviot."

The figure, parrot and all, swiveled and leaned into the screen, which ballooned with a young face nearly hidden by huge glasses. "Mr. Cheviot? I was expecting this link a half-hour ago," he grumbled. "The plans are on the system."

"Bryce," Cheviot said patiently, "I was hoping you could walk us through it."

He frowned, adjusting his glasses. "Is that necessary?"

"Indulge me."

"Oh. Very well," Bryce said, shrugging. "As you already know, during the last Telelection cycle, Network 66's so-called View Doze system maintained its ratings and eliminated ordinary channel-switching activity during the night by telling viewers they could," he made little quotes with his fingers, "'watch TV in their sleep.' Anyone who believed that would be, frankly, _stupid._"

"Er, yes, we remember," Cheviot said. "Continue."

"I believe the essential idea is valid, and I propose a similar tactic, without the scam component," Bryce said. "The basis for it is a ratings trend that I've been tracking at Big-Time TV." The screen now dissolved into a chart, labeled for different periods.

"The pirate station operating in the Fringes," Cheviot said.

"Exactly. Although Big-Time experienced abnormal, massive ratings increases while they were airing _Whacketts_ with its video narcotic additive --" everyone shuddered, remembering -- "Big-Time normally has a stable core audience, making for a ratings flatline. I like to call them the 'brain dead'." He paused, snorting at his own joke. "Here and here we see what appear to be random bumps in their ratings." Small lights blinked on, pinpointing the ratings increases at irregular intervals.

"You're saying those aren't random?"

"Further investigation revealed that these ratings bumps coincide with one particular 'video jock' going on-air at Big-Time. The depressions back to normal coincide with that presenter going off-air."

"And this presenter is?"

"Fang," Bryce said, "he --"

"Well," Edwards interrupted, "if this Fang has that capacity to draw an audience, maybe we should hire him away to Network 23."

Bryce stared down at him disdainfully. "Fang," he said, "is a dog."

The boardroom erupted in a buzz of conversation. "You're serious. They're using a dog as a presenter?" Cheviot asked.

"I guess you can call it presenting," Bryce shrugged dismissively. "Mostly he drools."

Cheviot coughed. "Be that as it may, Bryce, about the Telelection . . . ?"

"Right, the proposal," Bryce said. "Two-way view demographics have shown that the majority of Network 23's voting audience is urban -- and that most of them throw a blanket over their screens or turn them to the wall at night." He ignored the board's gasps of outrage and continued, "I believe some apartment dwellers regard Big-Time's Fang as an opportunity to have a pet vicariously. I propose giving Network 23 viewers free, full-time pets that require no care. Here. Watch this." A clatter of keys, and the wall terminal switched to a fullscreen view of an aquarium; as Bryce continued, the small fish flitted, floated across the screen. "Fish. Cheap for Network 23 as well -- the camera never moves, so no operator, editing, or production personnel are necessary."

Cheviot said, consideringly, "So you're suggesting that this is the equivalent of View Doze?"

"Awake Doze, if you like," Bryce said. "I mean, if you watch them long enough, they're sort of . . . hypnotic."

Cheviot glanced down the table and saw that the board members were indeed beginning to look mildly dazed.

"An attendant to feed the fish, change the water, monitor the temperature, you'd need that. You could program feeding times as a special event." Bryce gave another short, braying laugh.

Lauren shook herself, and leaned over. "Ben," she said in an urgent undertone, "we can't run nothing but fish on Network 23."

The fish disappeared to reveal Bryce rolling his eyes. "Of course not," he said witheringly. "You'd set up another 23 subsidiary network like Shoppin' Spree TV. That way, its ratings would count toward 23's in the Telelection."

"But what about advertising?" Ashwell insisted. "ZikZak is seventy percent of our present budget, and they'll never stand for --"

The aquarium had already reappeared, and the fish were scattering before a giant hand descending to drop a small model of a ZikZak pagoda into the corner at the base of one of the waving fronds. "There," said Bryce's voice over the speakers. "Happy?"

Cheviot cleared his throat. "About the sound, Bryce --"

"No, no sound at all, just fish. This addresses not only the blanket issue but the incipient off-switch epidemic as well. Viewers who want silence can have it on Tranquili-TV." Bryce's face reappeared, looking smug. "That's the name I'm suggesting."

"Simple but brilliant," Lauren murmured.

"Naturally. It _is_ my idea," Bryce said. "Mr. Cheviot, are we finished now? I have work --"

"Yes, Bryce, just about," Cheviot said. "I only have one more question. That graph of Big-Time ratings. In the last several weeks, it showed some unusual ratings activity in the early morning hours. Surely that wasn't also, er, Fang?"

"Oh, that." Bryce frowned. "No, that's strictly a limited, recent phenomenon. When Big-Time's still on the air during an overnight, they show viewer-generated garbage. Sermons and basement bands, that sort of thing. I suppose they must have gotten hold of something that's drawn some attention. If I had to guess, I'd say it's probably clipvids."

"But, but clipvids are illegal!" Edwards sputtered. "Stealing our content --"

"Of course they are," Bryce spared him a scathing glance. "It's a _pirate_ station."

Cheviot considered the matter briefly. Big-Time TV was actually a mobile unit rolling the streets of the Fringes; eccentric as Big-Time was known to be, occasionally it seemed to have a better grasp of developing youth trends than even 23's marketing department. "If you don't mind, Bryce," Cheviot said, "I'd like you to try to capture a sample of one of those overnights. I want to take a look." From Bryce's sour expression, Cheviot could see that he minded very much -- but he knew who approved his budget. "Unique as always, Bryce," he told him, "and thank you. That will be all."

* * *

  
**   
_(2) 00110010_   
**

At the Academy of Computer Sciences, no student could escape the compulsory pregraduation pods, which was why Bryce found himself fidgeting through "Your Network and You: Interfacing with Coworkers." Fortunately, there was no rule that they couldn't work on their private projects at the same time; Bryce linked his improved code for their tsetse-fly spy to the terminal of Bill Stewart across the room and watched smugly as the other boy's face lapsed into astonishment.

"To briefly reiterate yesterday's pod," the Sysop boomed from his podium, "of course we at ACS encourage you to minimize such real-time interfaces with the less . . . shall we say intellectually endowed employees of your networks and corporations? However, on occasion you will need to collate the information they possess, and for that reason, we practiced 'smalltalk.' Exchanges such as 'Hello,' 'How are you?' 'I am fine, thank you,' 'Please,' and 'I'm sorry' are essentially meaningless in themselves; however, they ensure the stability of an interhuman connection before commencing to share the data that we hereby refer to as 'largetalk'."

It didn't escape the Sysop's notice that Bryce and others were rolling their eyes behind their terminals, and he chided them, "Now, now, there is _nothing_ worse than good data gone to waste."

That was essentially true, so Bryce allocated slightly more attention to the lecture as he pulled up the file for the program he'd been debugging in his spare time.

"I remind you that all of these data in this pod are necessary for advancement to the next pod, Contract Negotiations," the Sysop continued. "In due course, you will discover that a superior intellect cannot insulate you from the more tedious aspects of employment. Which brings us to this afternoon's preliminary upgrade; please consult your pod floppies for the technical specifications related to biological functions, keyword 'sexual relations'. I know that the majority of you have already assimilated this material; nevertheless, I'll allow ten minutes for review."

Bryce, who hadn't bothered to scan this assignment, inserted floppy and rapidly paged through the text. He shot to his feet. "Sir."

The Sysop looked up. "Ah, Lynch. Yes, what is it?"

Bryce stomped to the microphone in the main aisle. "Sir, I'm _eleven,_" he pointed out with asperity. The others around him sat up straight, nodding.

The Sysop beamed down at him. "Yes, excellent as usual, Lynch. My point precisely! Among your coworkers will be those who are overly enamored of youth." The Sysop coughed deprecatingly. "These interfaces too are _data_ that you all may use to your advantage during Contract Negotiations. As you'll see, the basic employment contract ACS makes available to all students can be upgraded with additional funding, laboratory facilities, and equipment. Handled properly, these interactions need not have any other impact on your work and research. Now, if everyone has finished their review, I need several volunteers for real-time demonstrations."

In the end, Bryce didn't consider the pod time entirely wasted. Watching Adrian awkwardly squeeze Devon's breast while she looked surpassingly bored gave Bryce an idea for a novel data compression algorithm.

* * *

  
**(3) 00110011**

"Edison Carter, report to Control," the Network 23 tower's pager suggested gently to the corridors for the twentieth time.

"Where the hell is he?" Murray fumed. "We're supposed to be having a story conference!"

"Murray, I've been trying to raise him," Theora told him patiently. In time, she'd become accustomed to Edison's flakier aspects. "He has the netlink on his vidicam turned off."

"Is he even in the building?"

"Lay-dees and g,g,gentlemen, Edison has _not_ left the building," Max said, popping suddenly onto the secondary feed terminal on Theora's right.

"Max," Theora said, relieved, "you've seen Edison."

"Try ring-ring-ringing up the P,p,playpen Mansion," Max said.

"Playpen -- oh," Theora said. "How silly of me. I should have guessed."

"What's that supposed to --" Murray started, but Theora was already keying the View-Phone pad. "Bryce!" she said sternly. "This is Theora. Answer the vidiphone."

But the face that appeared in view was none other than their missing Edison Carter. "Theora!" he said gleefully. "Good timing! Check this out! We can move this, right?" The picture shimmied and swung as the screen took in a new portion of Bryce's lab with another terminal in view. Edison continued, "See here on this screen? They're fish, and _this_ is a laser gun," he held up what appeared to be a plastic replica of a security stungun.

"Actually," Bryce said, his face looming partially in view, "it's a weak-energy laser, only suitable for pointing."

"Right, right, so these fish --"

"Video constructs of fish, actually," Bryce corrected.

"You try to shoot them on the screen --"

"They do try to avoid the laser. They're programed for evasive maneuvers --"

"And it gets even harder, the more of 'em you bag!"

"I call it 'Shooting Fish in a Barrel'," Bryce finished smugly.

"You guys gotta try this," Edison said.

"Yes, that's fascinating, Edison," Murray leaned in. "Maybe after this week's story conference you'd like to share more of this wonder with the class. I mean, assuming that you still _work here?_"

"Story -- damn! Is it that late?" They watched him scrambling around on the screen, then Bryce leaned in and said simply, "He's on his way," and the screen went blank.

"Boys and their toys," Murray said, exasperated.

"Incidentally, Murray," Theora said, "what _is_ that you've been holding?"

"This? It's, ah, a breakerball. You can squeeze a breakerball like this. For stress. You squeeze it, and --" he shoved it in his pocket. "Never mind."

"Theroooora," Max said, "how about my reward,d for turning stool p,p,pigeon and sqeeeeeling on Edison?"

"How about a shiny sticker?" she said, pulling a sheet of them from her drawer. She peeled off a gold star and stuck it on the top of the screen. "There. You're now official hall monitor."

"Me? Me me me?" He jerked his chin proudly. "On your toes, Ed,edison. Th,there's a new sheriff in town town."

"I'll live in fear, Max," Edison said, shouldering his way to Theora's station, hefting his vidicam under his arm. He peered at the sticker on the monitor. "Are there any adults in this room?"

"Only me, I'm afraid," Theora said.

"People! Can we get to work here?" Murray shouted, and the group gathered once again around Theora's control station. "All right!" Murray said. "Our feature for next week on Edison's show. Let's hear it."

"Those kickbacks in the sector 38 housing authority --" Edison said.

"Next!" Murray said.

"The trucks I saw from the air in my chopper over in sector 82," Angela Barry said. "We still haven't looked into those."

"Next!" Murray said. Silence fell. "Oh c'mon. This is a news organization?"

"Slow week," someone muttered.

"What's wrong with my idea?" Edison said.

"What's our mantra for the main features?" Murray retorted.

"Sex, d,d,drugs, and rock rock rock and roll!" Max recited.

Murray coughed. "Sex, violence, money. We want to make upstairs _happy_ this week because it's that time of the year again. The fiscal year, to be exact."

"But Murray," Edison began, "low-credit housing . . ."

"No, Edison, no poor-people money. And unless you can actually get a video of a housing manager in bed with a credbanker, that's off the slate until later."

"Maybe we could," Angie said.

"No," Murray said, "_no_ more bedroom scandals. That last one was a disaster."

Edison sighed. "Murray, why don't you just tell us what it is that they want us to do this time?"

Murray cleared his throat. "Well, actually . . ." Everyone groaned, and he waved a hand. "People, they're the ones paying the bills here, so we should at least consider it. Theora, do you have that tape I gave you?"

"It's loaded, Murray."

"Tape of what?"

"Clipvids," Murray said, and everyone groaned again.

"Oh, c'mon, Murray, not this _again,_" Edison said.

"This is a request from the top -- Mr. Cheviot himself has _asked_ that we consider it," Murray said. "Note that it wasn't an order, it was a _request._ So we'll . . . consider it." He waved. "Theora, run that tape."

"Max," she said. "I'll need this terminal. Could you shift elsewhere for a while?"

"But I've never seen one!" Max protested.

Murray looked at Edison. "All that complaining, and you've never even seen one?"

"Gee, Max, thanks for that," Edison scowled at Max. "OK, no. I haven't. But that doesn't mean --"

"Have any of you ever seen a clipvid?" Murray cutting him off. The shuffling from the group spoke for itself. "Well then, I guess this should be an educational experience for us all."

"Actually," Theora said cautiously, "I've seen a few, but it was a long time ago . . ."

"Then you're now our official expert, and you can talk us through it," Murray said. "I haven't watched this tape myself yet."

"I, I want to watch, too, too, three, as many as you've got," Max said.

"Go see Bryce Lynch," Murray said. "He's the one who grabbed this transmission. He likely kept a copy."

"Waaaait a minute," Edison said, amused, "Bryce is taping clipvids now?"

"These were recorded from a Big-Time TV overnight at Mr. Cheviot's request," Murray said. At the looks he got, he agreed, "I know, I know. We don't want anyone taping _our_ network's broadcasts, but we're taping other networks. I don't want to hear about it." He cleared his throat. "As you all know, altering the components of TVs is illegal, owning private transmission-recording devices is illegal, recording broadcast transmissions is illegal, and sharing or distributing such recordings is illegal." He finished, "So it stands to reason that using these tools to recut broadcast recordings into clipvids is also --

"Illegal," everyone chorused in a drone.

"We know all this Murray," Edison said. "The clippers don't sell them, so I fail to see the harm to society here."

"Or the sex sex sex, violence, and money!" Max agreed. "How d,d,dreadfully dull."

"Max," Theora said, flicking her fingers, "shoo."

"Oh, all right. Going, going, going, going, gone . . ." he muttered, dwindling away to a pinpoint of light, leaving a black, empty screen, small gold star still stuck in the upper corner.

"My understanding is that ordinarily these don't show up being broadcast to the greater Metro area," Murray said. "Big-Time has been playing these things during its overnights, and apparently Realtime Vieweratings has even tracked interest in them."

"Then talk to Big-Time," Edison said. "Ask Reg to stop running them."

"Which is what you'll be doing, if we go with this story," Murray said. "If Big-Time is buying clipper programming, that's a problem. Obviously they're not going through the Ad Market, so we should find out who's making these clipvids and selling them under the table."

"I don't know if I'd feel comfortable putting Reg on the spot like that," Edison said. "He's helped us out --"

"Think of this as helping him out, then," Murray said. "The public relations backlash 23 got after arresting Blank Reg and prosecuting him by mistake in our network court for transmission zipping only had a limited shelf life. Network 23 doesn't want to be seen as targeting Fringers for harassment -- their TVs count in the Telelections, too. But if Reg keeps doing it . . . if they're bringing this up with us again, Network 23's board is probably considering going after him legally."

"Well, if you put it that way," Edison said, shoving his hands in his pockets, "I'll think about it."

"That's all I'm asking," Murray said. "Theora, get us started here."

The first clipvid popped onto the screen, with loud, pounding music. "Sorry," Theora said, keying down the sound hurriedly.

"Say, isn't that _Lumpy's Proletariat_?" Murray said, as everyone leaned forward to peer at her monitor.

"Yes, it does seem to be," Theora said, eyeing the screen, then, "Oh, I see. What they've done is to take clips of these two characters and reedit them to posit a romantic relationship --"

"Those two guys?" Murray said, looking shocked. "But they don't . . . they don't have one on the show."

"You watch _Lumpy's_?" Edison said, eyeing him with a faint smile.

"Unusual relationships of this type are often featured in clipvids," Theora said, ignoring Edison's jab. "It's all in how you arrange the clips, in the music that's used."

"Huh. _Lumpy's_ is sexier than I thought," Edison murmured after a few moments. "Maybe I should watch it."

"You're bound to be disappointed," Theora said, "the whole idea is that these are specially cut to elaborate on something that's barely there -- or to create something from nothing."

Angie Barry began clapping. "That was pretty good!" she said happily. Everyone turned to stare at her. "What? I liked it."

The next clipvid wasn't from a network drama. "Oh, that's Margo from that cooking program. Network 144's _Munching with Margo_, she's -- oh dear," Theora said. As the clips puttered along merrily, they showed a slim Margo from what were apparently older clips eating and eating and eating, and progressively putting on more weight with each clip from later shows -- then abruptly losing it, with the gain beginning again, and all of them were unflattering clips.

"Ow," mumured Edison, shaking his head. "Someone really doesn't like her."

Theora looked away. "No, this one's not nice. Clipvids can also be used to make a statement, in this case to illustrate that Margo Lanning is, er."

"Is a pretty drastic dieter," Murray said faintly.

"But most often they're done by fans," Theora said.

The next one, everyone agreed, was funnier, an overview of 23's _Life with Polly_. Then another romance clipvid followed, and another.

"Huh," Edison said, stretching. "I think we get the idea. How many are on that tape?"

"No idea," Theora said. "At least eight, I think. These were originally mixed in with other types of user-contributed videos, but he's cut --"

Max popped up on the screen. "And whoooo are you?" he crooned.

"Max," Theora said, startled, but the screen flicked to Edison looking serious, "I'm Edison Carter, and that's what _I_ want to know."

"Uh," Murray said, stunned, "this one's Max and Edison?"

"Fan video," Theora said quickly. "Well, I suppose it's hardly a surprise."

"To you, maybe," Edison said. "I wasn't expecting -- geez, some of these are years old. How long have they been recording our show?" The clips were progressing through a curiously suggestive sequence, Edison pursuing and badgering and interviewing, most of the clips showing him moving in ever closer to some of his more attractive past male interviewees. "What the hell are they implying here?"

"Um, Edison, I'm not sure that's the real question here," Murray said. Everyone else had fallen silent. On the screen, a very naked Edison and an also naked someone else -- a male someone else -- were rolling around on a bed.

"What the--?" Edison said, astonished.

"Edison," Theora said, "I'm going to turn this off . . ."

"You do that." Edison was already leaning over her, jabbing numbers into the keypad on her main terminal. Bryce Lynch flicked into view. "Busy here," he said, not looking up, "link back la--"

"Bryce!" Edison snarled at him. "You think this is _funny?_ What the fuck?" Everyone in the group began to back away.

Bryce blinked. "What are--?"

"This clipvid," Edison said, drawing it out, "your little _prank_ here with data rescan."

"What prank?" Bryce said, drawing himself up.

"Who else did you give that software to?" Edison snapped.

"What? No one," Bryce said. He frowned. "Well, besides you. It hasn't been perfected --"

"That's what I thought, which means _you,_" Edison said. "So stop screwing with me, kid. I'm going over to Big-Time to get that tape pulled, then you and me are going to have a nice, long talk, _Bryce,_ about your utter lack of --"

"Not interested," Bryce said abruptly and slapped his keypad. The screen winked out.

"Bryce, dammit," Edison said, stabbing his finger at the reconnect. "Theora, link him again."

"Edison, no," Theora said, "this isn't helping --"

"Fine, don't. I'll deal with him when I get back," Edison said, lifting his vidicam. "Whose chopper is ready right now? Martinez?"

"Edison," Murray said, "wait a minute. What do you think you're doing? Let's just stop and --"

"You and Cheviot set this up, Murray?" Edison snapped. "Hell of a sales job. I'm going after your damn clippers."

"Edison, you're out of line --"

"Edison, look," Theora cut in, "I understand that you're angry, but you can't go to Big-Time right now. They've gone to ground. They've been off link and off the air for two days now. It's probably just transmitter repairs, but --"

"Then _find_ them," Edison said. "Netsat can pick them up. You're my controller, right? That's supposed to be _your job_."

"-- _and_ their practice is to park in locations where Netsats can't pinpoint them," she continued. "So just calm down and --"

"I'm perfectly calm," Edison said. "I'm going out to the Fringes, I'll find Big-Time TV, and you'll help me do it. I'll call in when we're on the ground."

"Fine," Murray said, exasperated. He waved his arms and shouted, "Conference over! Find something to do, people." To Edison he said, "So go on. Take off. Go work your temper tantrum off outside of town. Just try not to embarrass our network while you're at it, please."

As Edison stomped off with his vidicam under his arm, Murray muttered, "God, the things I put up with around here."

"Hmm," Theora said, tapping on her keyboard.

"What are you doing?" Murray said.

"Looking for Max on the mainframe . . . ah, here he is."

"Edison's not suf,suf,sufficiently sexy?" Max said, pleased. "Now you want _me?_ Can't, can't say I'm surprised."

"You already know about that clipvid?" Theora said.

"Oh, I've been l,l,lurking around the area," he said, wiggling an eyebrow.

"Could you trail Edison when he gets on the ground? He said that he'd call in, but . . ."

"Ye-es, with Edison, there's always a but," Max said, "ooor in this case, a butt. Not, not, not bad, was it? I wouldn't miiind having that p,p,part myself."

"Max, I did not need to hear that," Murray groaned.

"Well, well, well, trailing Edison d,d,d,depends on Network 23's ratings today. Oh, what am I saying? Everyone'll be watching 23 b,b,b,b,because they're waiting for me!" With that, Max turned and glided off the screen.

"All right," Theora said, "now the cooler heads may prevail."

"Theora, you want to tell me what Edison was ranting about?"

"Ranting is right," she said, punching numbers into the terminal keypad. "Just a moment, Murray. I'm trying to get Bryce back on the --" The console beeped rapidly, and "Bryce Lynch, Egressed" appeared on the screen. "Damn. He's refusing links."

"He's left the building, too?" Murray said.

"No, of course not," Theora replied impatiently. "Bryce needs to be physically dragged out of doors. He's simply blocking any attempt to link to his level. I'll have to go up there myself. I'm going to need his help." She pushed back her chair.

"Wait, Theora," Murray said. "Explain this data rescan first."

"You don't remember? It's the video manipulation software that Bryce created. We used it to alter Simon Peller's speech when he was arresting Blanks in the Fringes."

"Oh, that," Murray said. "So Edison thinks that Lynch --"

"He thinks he's the source of the clipvid or that he gave the software to someone else who used it to make the clipvid, yes."

"And _did_ he?"

"Murray," Theora said, sighing. "Bryce wouldn't do that. In fact, I'm fairly certain this isn't a case of video manipulation."

"What? You think that's really Edison in that clipvid? What, securicam footage? College frolics on film? Secret porn career?"

"None of the above," she said. "You know most domestic securicam footage isn't color, and I do recognize what erased time codes look like. Murray, would you take a look at the clipvid again?"

He scrunched up his face. "Do I have to?"

"Murray," she chided, rattling the sequence out on her keyboard. She turned down the music, skimmed forward, and pointed to the screen. "Here, nothing about these images seems familiar to you?"

"Uh," Murray said faintly, "well, if you're asking me whether I've ever, uh . . ."

"Men," Theora rolled her eyes, "I _meant_ the quality of the video image itself."

He shuddered and leaned forward to look. "Oh. Sure, I see what you mean. It's blurry in parts, isn't it? Edges seem poorly defined. Actually, their movements aren't even --"

"Yes yes, exactly," she said. "Now . . . just let me access the storage archive. I'll only be a moment, I know where to find this."

"The archive? Of what? What are you looking for?"

"Unused footage from Edison's old reports," she said, keying through a directory. "Ah. Here it is. I've got it. We'll need to fastskim through here until --"

Murray heard his own voice booming from the terminal speaker, saying, "That was us, celebrating my promotion five years ago --" Theora keyed pause. "This is the Mind's Eye investigation, isn't it?" Murray said faintly.

"Yes, it is. Reg had accidentally started up a cine machine, and this commercial was on its reel. Here, Edison was taping it for us off the theater's screen." She skimmed through the scene slowly. "Do you notice how the image is distorted?"

"You're right," Murray said. "It does look similar. You've got a good memory."

"Part of my job. And, well, that was a difficult time, wasn't it?" she said. "Edison lost a friend."

"Paddy Ashton," Murray said, reluctantly recalling his own role in that report, "he died at Mind's Eye while they were taping his dreams. So are you saying this footage in the clipvid is a dream recording? How is that possible?"

"Well," Theora mused aloud, "we watched some of Edison's old dreams when Max uploaded them to the vidicam during Edison's investigation. They were, ah, interesting." She shook her head. "But they were also incoherent -- a jumble, really. I imagine most people's dreams are like that."

"I never remember mine, actually," Murray admitted.

"In this commercial, notice how much longer the clip of your promotion party is, how stable compared with the others. I'm assuming that's why they used it -- it's not exciting at all, really." Murray winced. "Sorry. My point is that this clip was obviously recorded from one of Paddy Ashton's dreams," Theora said, and Murray looked away. She continued more gently, "Paddy knew you. He also knew Edison."

"I had no idea they were --"

"They may not have been," Theora cut him off impatiently. "It wouldn't matter if they had. Dreams and reality are two entirely different things. We have precious little control over our dreams -- which was exactly why Mind's Eye and Dream Vu Micro Link had been hiding the nature of their business venture from the research subjects."

"Right, right," Murray said, "so it's possible that this is old Mind's Eye footage."

"I'd say it's more than possible -- it's probable. The distortions are too similar, and it has those same qualities of length and stability that characterized this clip we _know_ was Paddy Ashton's. Plus . . . Edison did meet with Paddy right before his death. He would have been on his mind."

"So how on earth would the clipper have gotten hold of it?"

"Well," Theora said, considering. "Mind's Eye and Dream Vu Micro Cable were both charged by Metropolice with fraud, with several counts of involuntary manslaughter . . . they've already been processed through the network court system."

"Their equipment and any other property would have been seized," Murray said. "Would the network court that tried this still have control of that?"

"No," Theora said, "surely not after this long. The assets would have gone up in a Metropolice seized property auction, wouldn't they? Who handles those?"

"Currently, it's Q System 7," Murray said. "It's a revolving five-year contract for public service programming, and they won it two years ago."

"Murray," Theora said, smiling at him, "we make an excellent team. Who needs Edison?"

He grinned back at her. "Unfortunately, _we_ need Edison -- I have to produce _somebody._ But considering his state of mind at the moment, I think we'd be better off taking care of this on our own. Do you have any contacts at that network?"

"No," she said. "You?"

"Me neither. They're not going to just hand over private bidder information."

"All right," she said flexing her fingers, "I can try to retrieve it myself."

"Theora, I can't stand by and watch you hacking a rival network's system," he said.

"Then please turn around, thanks very much," she said, applying herself to her keyboard.

* * *

  
**   
_(4) 00110100_   
**

"Theora," Edison said, fidgeting, balancing the box on one arm and holding aloft their package in the other. "I'm not so sure this is a great idea."

"Nonsense," she said, setting down her basket so that she could reach the keypad. "And as I recall, the idea was originally Max's. Wouldn't that make it yours? Just leave that here in the hall," she indicated the package Edison was holding. "That's meant to be a surprise, right?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure all of this is going to be a surprise," he said, glancing around the gloomy corridors of level 13. "I'm just not sure it's going to be a pleasant one."

"Trust me," she said, punching in the code. "Have I ever led you in the wrong direction?"

"No, but this is a little bit --"

The door puffed open onto the dimly lit laboratory, and Theora pressed it open farther. "We're coming in!" she called inside.

When that got them no response, Edison said, "Look, Theora, he might not be here at all."

"Where else would he be?" she asked.

"Okay, I can't argue with that," Edison admitted. "All right, let's do it."

Their invasion force of two found Bryce, dressed in a plaid bathrobe over rumpled clothing, hunched over a lab table. He was prodding at a gooey mixture in a beaker -- and pointedly ignoring them both. Theora set down her basket, crossed her arms, and began to tap her foot. When it became clear that they weren't leaving, Bryce looked up to distribute a glare at them both impartially. "I knew I should have changed that code," he said. "What do you want?"

"Hey there, Bryce buddy," Edison said.

"Hallo, Bryce," Theora said, "We've yet to meet face to face. I'm --"

"I know who you are," he cut her off. "What I don't know is what you're doing here. Either of you." He cut off the Bunsen burner and shoved it away. "Make it fast."

"Hmm," Theora said. "All right. I suppose we can keep it to a half hour."

"Keep what to a half hour?" Bryce said, irritated. "Look, I'm very busy --"

"Yes yes, aren't we all?" she said, already pushing aside the clutter on the table to clear a space in front of Bryce. "Edison, you can put that here."

"Hey, what are you doing?" Bryce said, scrambling back. "Uh, Mr. Carter, can't you control her?"

"It's Edison, Bryce. She's the Controller here, not me," Edison said, dropping the box onto the table. "I've found that it's better just to go with the flow."

"Can't you two go flow somewhere -- hey!"

Now Theora was shaking out the blanket she'd had over her arm onto the floor. She said briskly, "Based on the securicam footage, I could see that space was at a premium up here. So the floor's fine."

"Fine for what?"

"Go ahead and open your box, Bryce," she told him.

"This thing?" he said. "What do you mean, _my_ box?"

"Look at it this way, the sooner you open it, the sooner we leave," Edison suggested. At that, Bryce began tearing grimly at the string on top. "Where's Max, by the way?"

"Max is on standby right now. He's still randomizing and distributing his files around the network's mainframe and subsystems, and I haven't been able to --" he broke off, staring into the box. "What _is_ this thing?"

"Today's the tenth of July," Theora said. "It's a cake."

Bryce simply looked perplexed. "So?"

"So . . . many happy returns," Theora elaborated, smoothly sliding it out of his hands and lowering it to the blanket. "Have a seat, Bryce."

"Like it says, happy birthday?" Edison added, feeling a bit confused himself. Bryce's reactions were weirdly off-kilter from the norm. "You're sixteen?"

"So?" Bryce repeated, now starting to look frustrated.

"So we eat cake," Theora said firmly, flipping open her basket and pulling out plates. "Edison, sit. Who wants Zak Kola with their cake?"

"I hate Zak Kola," Bryce said immediately.

"Do you have anything that resembles a kitchen here?"

"Uh, why?"

"Water?" Theora prodded.

"Through there," Bryce waved loosely in the direction of a closed door, "but I still don't see --"

"Flow, Bryce, flow," Edison said, motioning with this hands. "Deep breaths might help, too."

"Fine!" he snapped, dropping to the floor by the blanket. "A half hour. Then I'm calling security."

"Ah, a very cheery birthday boy indeed," Theora said breezily from the doorway. She shook a jar. "Edison, would you prefer coffee as well?"

"Sure, why not?" he said, impressed by her aplomb. Falling in with Hurricane Theora was the easiest plan after all, he decided.

"That's why I hate Zak Kola," Bryce said repressively. "Caffeine is bad for you."

"But we were born to be bad," Edison told him. "Since it's your birthday, you should be indulging your wild side, Bryce. So make that three coffees, Theora."

"Righto."

"Uh. I'm pretty sure I don't have a wild side," Bryce said.

"Yeah? I'm not so sure about that," Edison said, pointing at his own forehead which still sported stitches. Bryce looked away and shifted uncomfortably.

"You're not going away until I eat this, are you?" he mumbled.

"Nope, you're stuck with us," Edison said. "Here's the knife, start cutting."

When Theora drifted back balancing three coffees on a tray -- "Instant, I'm afraid," she said, "best I can manage under the circs." -- Bryce was already chewing on a bite of the cake with a frown on his face.

"You don't like choco flavor?" she asked him.

"I'm not sure," he said, consideringly. "Maybe I used to."

Edison shot Theora a look: What the hell does that mean? She shook her head minutely: Don't know.

Finally Bryce nodded. "It's too sweet, but I guess it's okay." Then he picked up the cup Theora had set down and took a swig -- and scrunched up his face. "Ugh. Bitter. You like this stuff?"

As Edison laughed, Theora assured him serenely, "An acquired taste. Sweet and bitter, entirely appropriate for the occasion."

Edison checked his watch, and scrambled to his feet. "We've got fifteen more minutes, so I'd better get uh."

"Oh, right," Theora said.

"Get what?" Bryce said, looking up.

"Well, Bryce," Theora said, while Edison trotted back out to the hall for their package, "your parrot -- what's its name, by the way?"

"Name?"

"Yes, the parrot's name," Theora said.

"It doesn't have a name," Bryce said impatiently. "It's a _parrot._"

"Oh, but surely you --"

By that time, Edison had returned with the cage and set it down on the blanket by the cake. "Then I guess for right now our boy here is just Parrot Number 2," he said. "The green and smaller variety. If you want to get their attention, you're going to have to start naming them, Bryce."

Bryce's eyes went wide and he started to lean forward -- then he sat back with a thump. "What do you want?" he said curtly.

"Want?" Theora said, confused.

"You're giving me a parrot that I didn't requisition," Bryce said. "That means you want something from me. So just tell me what it is."

"Bryce, c'mon," Edison said, exasperated, "this is a _birthday_ present. That means you didn't have to ask for it, and that means we don't _want_ anything. It's free! So take it and run!"

"This whole birthday thing -- it's for little kids," Bryce said, eyes going narrow. "I'm not a kid, and I don't understand why --"

"They're not," Theora said stoutly. "They're for everyone. Edison, tell him. What did you get last year?"

"Uh," Edison shifted, put on the spot. They both stared at him. "Well, actually."

"Oh good lord," Theora said.

"Murray took me out for a beer after work," he mumbled. "So, hey, Bryce, you want to go out for a beer?"

"No," he said wrinkling his nose.

"Honestly, why _do_ I bother?" Theora sighed. "You're both hopeless."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Edison and Bryce said at the same time.

"As I said." She looked to the heavens, briefly. "At any rate, Edison, our half hour is nearly up, so we'd best start clearing this away."

"So can I, uh," Bryce said, fingering the cage, "are you really just . . ."

"All yours, pardner," Edison said. He chanced a light punch to Bryce's shoulder, and Bryce didn't look annoyed so much as flabbergasted. "Enjoy. Nameless parrot, all the cake, all the coffee, try not to get too excited here."

"Of course I won't," Bryce said loftily, then mumbled something under his breath.

"Didn't catch that, Bryce," said Edison.

"I wasn't going to call security anyway," he rattled out.

"We know," Theora said, "but we have to go back to work as well."

"We'll make like a tree and get out of here," Edison agreed, stuffing the used plates back into Theora's hamper.

"Huh. Max says stuff like that, too," Bryce said, picking up his new parrot. "Pretty stupid."

"Ow?" Edison said.

"You can," Bryce started, stopped, and a few silent seconds ticked by before he finished, helplessly, "come have more cake. Later."

"Yeah, well," Edison said, grinning, "I'm the choco fan here, not Theora, and that's a lot of cake. You might come to regret that offer."

"Probably I will," Bryce said, sighing.

* * *

  
**(5) 00110101**

The securicode didn't work. Theora sighed and keyed the control room on the door's monitor. "Murray," she said.

"Theora? What is it?"

"I need you to run program 13B on my terminal and read me the output combinations. I'll wait."

"Lynch changed his code again? Hey, here's an idea. Have you and Edison ever tried _knocking_?" Murray said wryly.

"He's still not answering my link requests," she said. "And, for your information, I'm not Edison, so, yes, I _did_ try knocking first."

The fifth code from the software got her in, where she found a furious Bryce slumped in the chair before his main monitor, bouncing a coil of wire between his palms.

"Knock, knock," she said. "Bryce."

"You people," he said, not looking up. "You keep invading my studio, interrupting my research. You get my credits wiped, you almost get me killed . . . you, you keep dragging me out into _weather_." He threw out an arm, presumably to encompass the entire Metro area, and the coil of wire nearly escaped. "You're even using my toothbrush!"

"The perils of being Edison's friend," she said carefully. "I know."

"No, you don't know," Bryce said, scrunching up the coil, and crossing his arms over his chest.

"No? So tell me, Bryce, how did Edison find out that Ted worked in editing for primetime dramas? Edison may be able to pull up and read my personal mail, but he does _not_ know how to access the personnel data base at that level."

Bryce shrugged. "Couldn't say."

She sighed. "You're not his Controller, Bryce, I am. _You_ don't have to give Edison everything he asks for. Try saying no once in a while." She considered that and added briskly, "For that matter, the same applies to me. If you'd like me to stop cracking your securicode at Edison's behest, all you have to do is ask me."

Bryce kicked the base of the console in front of him, and kicked it again. "I don't care."

"Well, then. Since you don't care, then what's this really all about?" Theora said gently.

Bryce muttered something low.

"I didn't catch that, Bryce," she said, leaning in.

He sat up abruptly and pushed his glasses back into place. "I didn't know what he was talking about. I just taped the things at Mr. Cheviot's request, cut out everything that didn't apply. I didn't bother to watch them; _I_ have more important things to do. So now I've wasted valuable time watching that clipvid. Edison thinks that was me? With data rescan? Is he really that _stupid?_"

"Yes, I'm afraid so." Theora let out a long breath. "He did jump to that conclusion. As you're well aware, Edison is not . . . the most logical of creatures. But once he _thinks_ about it, he'll know it wasn't you."

"Oh yeah?" Bryce said. "How's he going to arrive at _that_ conclusion?"

"Because you'd never do that to him."

"He seems to think I would."

"Right. Perhaps there were, ah, difficulties initially. You didn't know him then," she pointed out. "You're not making data constructs of anyone else lately, are you?"

"Well . . . no." He even looked vaguely alarmed at the thought. She silently thanked the heavens that Bryce's idea of humor had indeed matured a little since then. "So why weren't you yelling at me, too?" he said. "You didn't think it was me?"

"I know it wasn't you. Not just because it's not your style," she said, seizing the opening. "I recognized the video used. Or rather, I recognized that it was similar to something else I'd seen."

"The Dream Vu Micro Cast commercial," Bryce said, matter of fact.

Theora blinked. "Er, yes. How did you --?"

"I was the one who analyzed their recording techniques, wasn't I?" Bryce said testily.

"Yes, yes of course," Theora said.

"Well? So what?" Bryce said.

"So we need to find the clipper so that we can stop the clipvid's distribution," Theora said.

"It's not my problem," Bryce said mulishly, pulling out the coil and beginning to bounce it between his palms again. "Which would be a no. If you'll excuse me, I have --"

"Bryce," Theora said, "we need to talk about this." Bryce refusing to help Edison with anything was such a novel situation, she wasn't entirely certain how to approach it.

"Whenever people say that to me, it always means that they think _my_ processing is deficient," Bryce retorted. "I'm positive that it's not."

"I agree," Theora said.

"You do?" Bryce peered at her, astonished. Then he frowned. "I don't follow."

She sighed. "Bryce, the deficient processor here is Edison."

"You know, I have no interest in talking about him any more," Bryce said.

Theora soldiered on. "Edison is pig-headed, dedicated, and he attaches himself passionately to causes. That's what makes him a dogged journalist, it's what gets him such high ratings. It makes him interesting to work with." She laughed to herself. "In another age, I suppose he'd have been saving the whales and chaining himself to trees in the rainforest."

"What are those?" Bryce asked.

"Those are . . . not important at the moment," Theora said, thrown off course for a moment, and she could see Bryce making a mental note to look them up himself. "My _point_ is that Edison's temper is a side effect," she said. "To be Edison's Controller -- or his friend -- we have to be able to make allowances for that. To adjust our parameters. We can't all be Murray and outshout him until he finally listens. The rest of us have to just," she waved a hand, "back away and let him work things out himself. Oh, and try not to be mortally offended by what he says and does until he comes to his senses. Which can be damned difficult," she finished in a mutter.

"I'm not _offended_," Bryce said.

"No?" she tilted her head. "Maybe you're just not certain yet what 'offended' feels like -- the proper label for this particular emotion. Because I'm fairly certain that you _are._ Offended, resentful, angry. Edison flew to the conclusion that a situation that happened to involve video manipulation -- and himself -- was your fault, merely because you've researched this area and you happen to know him. All very irrational, I agree. If I were you, I'd be bloody furious with Edison for doubting me."

"Fine." She waited as Bryce turned that over for a few moments. "So maybe I am offended?" he conceded tentatively.

"With every reason to be," she told him firmly. "That brings me to a question. In the past, when Edison's asked for help, you've always provided. Granted, he's not doing the asking himself this time, but he _is_ the one who'll benefit. So is the reason you're refusing to help this time because you're angry with Edison?"

"Uh." Bryce blinked, taken aback. "No, it's because I don't know anything about --"

"Lie," Theora stated. She watched him start and glance covertly at the screen. "No, Bryce, I'm not running a truth analyzer. I'm standing right here. I can _see_ you."

"That shouldn't make any difference," he muttered.

Theora shook her head. "Bryce, please. If you could just set aside the anger for a little while, it's perfectly all right to take it up again later. All right?"

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Life often doesn't," she agreed. She slipped the floppy from her pocket and dangled it before him. "So, Bryce. I need your expert opinion on this clipvid."

"All right," he said at last. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"We know it's one of the Mind's Eye recordings," Theora said. "Those were most likely among the assets auctioned off --"

"Q System 7," Bryce said curtly.

"Er, yes," she said. "I've already accessed their network mainframe, but --"

"Really?" he said. She felt a warm rush of pride when he looked mildly impressed.

"Yes, but the auction data is part of their subsystem link with Metrocops, and the security frame was stronger. It's a separate system that's not even linked into the network's main, in fact."

"Yeah, well, no surprise," Bryce said, clearly more comfortable with a more concrete technological issue. "Eldon -- uh, he was a few years ahead of me at the Academy -- knows better than to leave any potential openings there. They'd lose their contract for the auction broadcasts to another station."

"You know their development programmer," Theora said, relieved. Now they were getting somewhere. "Bryce, if you would. That's all I'm asking -- one link, a few minutes. If he'll share the name of the purchaser, I can take it from there."

"That's all?" he said, watching her warily from the corner of his eye.

No, she never needed a truth analyzer to read Bryce. "That's all," she said. "I didn't tell Edison anything else. I'm certain he doesn't realize that the storage capacity needed to preserve that many years of his show could never be managed with a domestic system, even if such a thing were legal. Which leaves corporation or network capacity. And the professional level of the editing does indicate someone accustomed to using network resources." She sighed. "I wouldn't have told him, even if he'd given me time, frankly. You see, knowing that would have only pushed him farther in the _wrong_ direction."

Bryce sagged. "I don't know. It's probably --"

"Another ACS alumnus," she said.

"Probably," he said.

"Anything you do above and beyond, Bryce, is your own decision," she said, looking away. "As you pointed out, it really _isn't_ your problem."

"How much time?" he said.

"Well, Edison's out in the field tracking down Big-Time TV. Dominique isn't responding to link requests, so I can't give them the heads-up, but I'll do what I can."

"Did you give Edison wrong coordinates?" Bryce said.

"On the contrary, Mr. Lynch. I gave him the correct coordinates -- the last known ones," Theora said. "Big-Time has been off-air for two days, and the Netsats can't find them." She grinned. "Edison will just have to run them down the old-fashioned way. Plenty of healthy exercise, out of doors."

Bryce shuddered. "He will, you know," he said. "That's not a huge window to work in."

"Well, Max is pacing him, and I'll be in Control helping him myself," Theora said archly. "I'm sure if we can deal with the source, I can convince Edison to come in from the field before he does too much damage. At worst, all he'll do is alienate Reg."

"But isn't Reg already kind of from outer space?" Bryce said, wrinkling his nose.

"Bryce," she chided. But, on second thought. "Yes, I suppose he is. Nothing to worry about then."

* * *

  
**   
_(6) 00110110_   
**

"Christ, Bryce," Edison groaned, pulling him closer. "I am so sorry about this." So he'd talked Bryce into breaking them into Security Systems. So they'd been caught. So now they were locked in a thermal testing chamber. So Edison had no ideas about how to get them out. So maybe the outlook was pretty grim, but someone, _anyone_ could have a change of heart and decide to let them out. They just had to wait -- and try not to freeze to death before that happened. But the chances of that happening were . . .

Edison would have expected Bryce to be as furious as he was, but he only seemed weirdly resigned. "S'okay," Bryce said, "uhhh, like, like I said? This fear thing is ex,exhilarating? Uh. Sort of."

"C'mere, s,scrunch up more. B,body heat," Edison said. To himself, he muttered, "Just can't be,believe I fell for it. She lied to me. From the, from the _start._ That _bitch_."

"Valerie Towne?" Bryce lifted his head briefly, breath puffing into the air. Then he turtled back beneath Edison's jacket. "Huh. Don't . . . don't people lie to you a lot?"

"Well, _yeah_, 'course they do," Edison told him, "but this was dif,different, she --"

"And she, she fooled a voice print an,analyzer," Bryce murmured, sounding sleepily, in spite of the shivering. "You couldn't be expected to --"

"You don't g,get it, Bryce," Edison said, "it's one thing to fool a _machine._ It's an, another to fool _me_. Con,consistently. Like that. I can _tell_ when p,people aren't telling me the t,truth. That's, it's what I _do_."

That won him another odd glance from Bryce. "P,people are too random," he sighed, the breath evaporating in a puff of mist. "S'okay."

"Bryce, it's, it's not _okay_," Edison insisted. "Look. I, I got you . . . into this mess, Bryce. I'll . . . _get you out._" He tucked Bryce's head under his chin and pulled his jacket over both their heads. "You're not gonna . . . die in here. We won't."

"Voice, voice print analyzer?" Bryce said mumbled, muffled.

It was a Bryce joke, he realized. That was the whole trouble with geniuses -- in situations like this, they always knew better. "None, none needed," Edison retorted. "Max is, he's . . . still out there."

"But. Uhhh, you, you know the really ex-exciting part?" Bryce said. He wasn't shaking as much now, but his words were slurring more. Edison wondered if that was a good sign.

"Nah. What's . . . that?"

"Thhhermal ch,chamber. Righ? Is. Uhhhh, for Netsat com,components," he mumbled, "t,testing. Temp, temperature below threshold? Air will . . . vent."

"Vent," Edison repeated. Wait. "_What?_"

"Yeah. Orbital . . . con,conditions," Bryce nodded loosely. "But mmaybe we'll . . . be dead b,before then."

"Bryce," Edison said carefully, "_not_ 'exciting.' Wrong ch,choice."

"Oh." Bryce huddled, digesting that information. "Again?"

"Yeah."

"And. We,we, uh, we, we sssound like Max," Bryce said thickly.

"Heh. Y,yeah."

"Sss'funny."

"Yeah. Sss'funny. Heh."

If he had to be locked into a deathtrap again, Edison decided, Bryce would be his first pick for a companion. Or his last pick. Deathtraps could be confusing that way. In any event, gratitude was called for. When he quietly let himself into Bryce's lab again later, he was carrying a paper bag. "Bryce, Bryce, Bryce!" he yelled.

"_What?!_" Bryce yelped, jumping and dropping the screwdriver he'd been clutching. "Oh, Edison. It's you." He eyed Edison and his bag warily.

"Help me celebrate the return of my credit rating!" Edison said. "I come bearing gifts!"

"Why? It's not my birthday," Bryce said, backing away. "And I remember that there's a saying about that."

"_Exactly,_" Edison told him. "See, that's the thing. I've got to get started on helping you work out those life's goals of yours because I cannot guarantee I'll never get you in trouble like that again." With that, he dropped the bag on the table in front of Bryce with a tinny clunk. "Take a look."

Bryce cautiously peeked into the bag. Then he gasped. "A Masters of the Universe lunchbox?! Where did you --?"

"Stall in the Fringes," Edison said. "Actually, I told Max to make his TV rounds, and he's the one who spotted it."

"Max did?" Bryce blinked. "That's where he's been?"

"Yup, and he's still out there, badgering the populace. The only way to shake him is channel switching, so Network 23's ratings are probably going to tank out there before he gives up. He's pretty persistent, you know."

"I know he is," Bryce said, looking away and fingering the latch. He flipped it open. "Oh. Oh, it's still got the original thermos!" He lifted it out to screw off the top. "The glass isn't broken, either."

"So you can fill it with coffee," Edison suggested.

"Uhhh, no, I don't think so," Bryce said. "But I still don't see --"

"'Cause we'd have been in deep shit without you," Edison said. "So, so don't question it, just enjoy it." With that, he wrapped his arm around Bryce's neck and gave his head a firm scrub, ignoring his shout of protest.

"So, uh," Bryce said, freeing himself at last, "if you guys are really working on my life's goals now, what are you going to do about the other one?"

"Tell you to grow up," Edison said. "Don't push your luck, pal."

"Figures," Bryce muttered.

* * *

  
**(7) 00110111**

Bryce keyed in the proper View-Phone coordinates, punched the override when the reception-block recording began, and within a moment a round, Asian face with black hair pinned back from his face with sparkly pink barrettes filled his screen.

"Hunh? Uh, Q System 7, Research and Devel -- Oh, hey! Bryce Lynch from 23? Duuude! Long time, no interface!" Then he cleared his throat and recited, "How are you today? The weather is nice, isn't it?"

Bryce snorted. "Amusing. Data share."

"Bad mood. Just cut my funding again. Data _trade,_" Eldon countered instantly. He sat back and Bryce could now see a long length of reptile wrapped around his neck.

"Not a problem. Uh, is that a snake?" Bryce said, intrigued.

"My Elvira," Eldon said proudly. "She's a rock python. Say, this have anything to do with our break-in this morning? That you, Lynch?"

Bryce rolled his eyes. "If it was me, you wouldn't even have known."

"Good point," Eldon agreed. "Still, someone pretty good. In and out before I could trace 'em."

"Theora," Bryce said.

"Who's . . . wait. You mean Theora Jones? _That_ Theora? At World 1? You know her?" He leaned into the screen, face going wide. "I've heard she's, like, a babe."

"Expired data, Eldon. She's Edison Carter's Controller at 23 now."

"Yeah? Huh!" he said, eyes glazing over. "I can't believe Theora Jones tried to crack my system, that's so . . . so cosmic."

Bryce rapped on the glass. "Eldon. You're wasting packets here."

"Uh, right," he shook himself, "so what you got for me?"

"Got a new securicode cracker that --"

"Booooring. Got one already," Eldon said.

"You don't have anything like _this_ one. This one was written by _that_ Theora Jones."

"Dude." Eldon said sitting up. "That decrypter she wrote two years ago was sweet."

"Trust me, this is even better. Infrared keypad scanning followed by automatic access to classified files on multiple systems -- personnel, medical, all of them -- to isolate the most probable variables." Reluctantly he admitted, "She keeps using it on me."

"I want!" Eldon said promptly. "Deal. What's the date of the auction?"

"I don't have that data. I have two company names, Dream Vu Micro Cast and Mind's Eye."

"Oh oh oh. That one, yeah, okay," he muttered, rattling away at a keyboard. "I got a sweet set of boards in that one, dude. I tell you, I gotta scrounge for all the good stuff I've got --"

"I hear that. They even keep trying to take away my parrot," Bryce said, gritting his teeth. "Polly is the crux of my synaptic duplication research, you know."

"What, that Max Headroom software? That's outrageous. If anyone budgeted out my Elvira . . ." They communed in a moment of mutual fury. Then Eldon shook himself. "Boardroom bastards. I'm accessing accounting data now. Here we go. Lab equipment, unclassified pharmaceuticals, video equipment, a building in sector 97, corporate office space in sector 7, lots of stuff. So what do you need to know?"

"Telecine reels. May or may not have been sold as separate lots, may or may not have been labeled. I need any data you have on the lot contents and the names of the winners."

Eldon shook his head sadly. "No deal. Confidential data, Lynch."

"So what?" Bryce said. "The latest version of Jones' crack."

"So this could get me in mega trouble," Eldon said uneasily. "With Metrocops."

"I'll throw in my own system-trace eraser. That's what she used on you," he said. He pushed up his glasses. "It's based on those Zipping algorithms I wrote at ACS. As you noticed, I've _substantially_ improved the program. Anyone on staff at . . . say, a less secure network than 23 could use it to silently access accounting data. Hey, who knows? They could even alter budgets without anyone noticing."

"I want!" Eldon patted his snake's snout, distracted. "Yeah. All right, all right," he muttered. "Do a microlink and send it over. Can you standby?"

Bryce poked a few keys and sat back. "Not a problem," he said.

* * *

  
**   
_(8) 00111000_   
**

The door to the research and development wing slammed open. Bryce didn't even have time to whirl around before the odor assaulted his nose. He clutched it, eyes already beginning to tear up. "God! What, _what_ is that?"

"Bryce!" Edison Carter charged through the door, his face smeared with black streaks and his clothing caked. "I need some help, here, buddy. You live here! So you've got a shower!"

"Edison, what are you --? _No!_ I don't have a shower, I just have a --"

"Good enough! Where!"

Bryce pointed, silent.

"Great! I'll be back." Edison trudged down the short hall to the bathroom, shedding his clothing along the way.

"Wait!" Bryce yelled, starting after him. Then his nose overruled the gesture. He shouted instead. "How did you even get in here?! I just changed the --"

"Oh, Theora cracked that code last week!" Edison called back. "Holy cow, Bryce, you got an entire netlink terminal setup in here!"

"Don't touch anything!" Bryce yelled.

"No? Hey, is this bubble bath?"

Bryce ground his teeth. "Oh, fine, go ahead and use it, whatever, just don't --"

"How about the duck?!"

"Leave my duck alone!"

"Awww, Bryce!"

"I mean it, Edison! You want me to call security?"

"For a duck?! Oh, this is great, submarines, too." After a few moments, Edison called out, "Don't you ever watch my show, Bryce?"

"Why would I? And how does that apply to _my bathroom?_"

"I was covering that chemical spill over in sector 85." Bryce heard the water starting.

"So?"

"We got splashed a little," Edison said. "Me and Angie Barry. Not like my apartment building has a helipad, y'know."

"What?" Bryce blanched. "This stuff could be toxic! And is she going to be --?"

"Nah, she's not half as bad as me. Said she wouldn't let her precious copter to be hosed out by amateurs, then she turned the hose on herself."

"You could have done that," Bryce muttered sourly. "Look, this jacket stinks --"

"Hey! Don't touch that jacket!" Edison yelled back. "You got cleaning service? Send it out. Just toss the rest."

"So I'm his maid now?" Bryce grumbled to himself. He fetched a set of tongs from the lab, then gingerly collected the shirt and held it aloft. "My clothes won't fit you," he pointed out with asperity to the open door. The smell was already abating a bit.

"Theora's getting us a change of clothes," Edison said, splashing. "I think she feels guilty for letting her operative get slimed. And, hey, she should!"

Bryce continued to grumble to himself as he slid an empty equipment canister along the hall, dropping the scattered pieces of filthy clothing into it. "You shouldn't just walk in whenever you feel like it," he said, pushing it into the bathroom.

Edison, a fluff of bubbles on his head, was resting his chin on his arms, folded on the rim of the tub. "Yeah? So if I come knockin', you'll let me in?" he said. He squeezed the rubber duck, and it squeaked loudly.

"Well. No," Bryce said. "Why would I?"

"I guessed," Edison said. "But Max gets the run of the place, huh?" He dropped the duck into the soap dish and slid back, his head submerging under the bubbles.

"Why wouldn't he?" Bryce said to the uncommunicative mass of bubbles.

"This Week on 'Wh,what I Want to Know': Edison Carter, squeeeeeky clean investigative reporter? Or d,d,d,dirty, dirty boy?" Max was peering at them from the bathroom terminal.

"Really dirty," Bryce said, cramming the lid down on the container, "be glad you can't smell him." Bryce stomped back into his main lab, and Max glided alongside from terminal to terminal. "I don't get him. What's his problem, anyway?"

"Aside from the hhhair, the attitude -- and _now_ the ch,charming odor? Hmm! Attention-seeking b,b,behavior. Do we class,classify that as a p,p problem?"

"Whose attention?" Bryce said scowling, trying to backtrack in his coding to where he'd been when Edison interrupted. "He's not going to find Theora in my bathtub."

"Right you _are,_ Bryce, my little d,detective. A mmmmystery that merits investigation!"

"No, it doesn't," he said. He'd just started to debug the next line when Edison's vidicam began to talk. "Edison, this is Control. Come in, Edison. _Edison,_ are you there?"

Bryce sighed, frustrated, and gave up work as a lost cause. He crouched down and tilted up Edison's vidicam to stare into the lens. "Theora."

"Bryce! Edison's with you? So that's why I couldn't track his location."

"Not exactly. To be precise, Edison is in my bathtub. Edison is using up my bubble bath. Edison is playing with _my duck_ \--"

"Bryce, hey," Edison called out, "is it OK if I use your toothbrush?"

"No!" Bryce shouted back. "Theora," he begged, "please, come rescue my bathroom before it's too late."

"Bryce," she said, her voice sounding amused, "I've got his change of clothes. I'll bring them right up if everyone's decent."

"Well, _I'm_ not naked, obviously," he snapped, tugging at his bathrobe collar. "I'm working! Or I was trying to."

"I'm on the way," she said, when Murray cut in, "You can tell Edison that Martinez took Jeannie Crane out to follow up on his story. That toxic chemical spill is, ah. Well, it's fertilizer. Liquid manure."

"Pig manure?" Bryce eyed Edison's precious leather jacket.

"In fact," Theora confirmed lightly. "Be strong, Bryce. I'll be right up to save you." The netlink green light went red.

No sooner had the netlink gone out than Edison wandered out in nothing but a towel drapped over his head and another wrapped around his waist. He had a familiar toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. "Waash shat Sheora?"

"She's coming to collect you," Bryce said, averting his eyes. "She has good news for you, too."

"Oh yeah?" Edison said, looking hopeful.

* * *

  
**(9) 00111001**

The motor bike roared up to the abandoned warehouse, and Rik pulled them to a halt. "Looks like we misplaced your better half," he said, eyeing a street nest of TVs that were all playing Gidividi's _Rumor Mill_ simultaneously. Max had been stalking them all day, flitting from TV to TV, stalls, public street nests, anywhere and everywhere 23 programming was playing.

"My evil twin, you mean," Edison groused, hauling himself stiffly from the rickshaw, lugging his vidicam alongside him.

The TVs now were burbling, "It's the Rumor Mill program! All the hottest and the latest dirt! Our top tidbit: 23's Edison Carter is back in the mill. Remember viewers, unsubstantiated means it _could be true!_ We'll look into that and more, after this word from ZikZak."

Rik pulled his sunglasses down his nose to stare at Edison.

"Long story," Edison said, shaking his head. "Nothing you haven't already seen."

"Uh huh."

"So this is the place?"

"So they say," Rik said, shrugging. When Edison started to reply, Rik held up a hand for quiet. Over the soft putter of the motorbike and the chattering TVs, Edison could make out a faint thump of bass notes coming from one of the empty windows. "And I'd say," Rik said, "signs point to yes."

"Finally," Edison breathed. "Plenty of room to land a chopper out here, so you're off the hook. What do I owe you for all this?"

"Same as always plus bonus for exclusive," Rik said, throwing a leg over his bike to watch Edison pulling out a clutch of cash from his pocket. "You're throwing around the cash slips today, aren't you? That have anything to do with it?" he jerked a thumb at the TVs.

"Yeah. Special occasion," Edison muttered, shuffling the paper into his outstretched palm. "Listen, Rik, maybe we should --"

"Naaah. You're working, I'm working. Some night when I'm feeling more drunk and disorderly," he said.

"Some night when Wraith's not being your 'bodyguard'," Edison said sourly. "Now, what _else_ do I owe you?"

"Hmm?" Rik tilted back his head, sun glinting off his dark lenses. After a moment, he patted Edison on the cheek and said, "For now, contemplate the sound of one hand clapping." With that, he threw his leg back over his bike, revved the engine, and peeled out in a shower of dust.

"There you have it," the TVs insisted, "taste tests have proved more viewers prefer Zak Kola over Zlin Kola, ten to one!"

Edison coughed, and called out after him, "Am I supposed to know what that even means?" He got nothing but a backhanded wave in reply. He sighed and shouldered his vidicam, flicking the link switch. "Control."

"This is Control," Theora replied instantly. "Edison, where are you? Let me target your signal."

"I'm outside a warehouse on the far side of sector 186."

"My," Theora said, "they've certainly wandered far abroad this time. You're certain it's them?"

"Tell me about it, I think I've jostled loose a few organs today," Edison said. "As for Big-Time, yeah, pretty sure."

"All right, I have you, now," she said. "I'm not reading any transmission leakage. The structure itself must be blocking it."

"I can _hear_ them, Theora," Edison said.

"Really? That loud? I have the layout of the facility," she replied. "Two meters around the corner to your right you'll see a loading dock. There's rusted equipment in the area, please be careful."

"I've had all my shots," he said, as he trotted around the corner, and starting to pick his way through the rusting hulks of old loader vehicles.

"I was thinking turned ankles, not mange," Theora said tartly. "The stairs to the dock are over on your left. Across the platform, there's a smaller door. It may be locked, but I doubt it."

It wasn't, but the hinges were frozen with rust. Edison wrestled it open and squeezed through into a vast open factory space, littered with glass from the broken windows and the remains of old machines. The music was booming, echoing weirdly off the walls.

"You hearing this now, Control?"

"Difficult not to," Theora said. "Have you spotted the bus?"

"Yeah, over there toward the back. Take a look." Edison pointed the vidicam as he walked, and Theora made a noise of approval. "I thought you said Big-Time was off-air today."

"They are, Edison," Theora answered promptly. "No signal."

As he approached the open door of the battered pink bus, shattering music blared from within and Reg was shouting, "This! Is! Big Time! I! Am! Blank Reg! Yeah, you heard me, you tossers, you're rocking with the big time now! Big-Time TV! And now for -- 'ere, what's that, Dom, me little pumpkin?!"

Edison frowned. "But I can hear --"

"Oh, righto!" Reg roared, and Edison winced at the echo. "And now a word from today's sponsor! Breugel and Mahler, esquires! 'The light shall be dark in his dwelling, and his candle shall be put out'!" Reg recited at the top of his lungs. "What the flip's that mean?! You write this, Dom?!"

"No!" Now Dom was shouting loud enough to be heard as well. "They did!"

"Ahhhhh, truly, th,they're the soul of poetry!" Max shouted back. "Or d,d,do I mean pogrom?!"

"Max precedes me again," Edison muttered. "How the hell'd he get in here?"

"Shut up, Max!" Dominique yelled, "Go back to 23! Go on, Reg, finish the promo!"

"Right! Where'd I leave off . . . ?! Lessee 'ere . . ." Then he bawled, "Contact 'em at Caligula's! That's Breugel and Mahler, they got reasonable rates, and discretion is their trademark!"

"D,don't you mean _extinction_ is their trademark?" Max shouted back. "Out out out b,b,b,brief candle!"

"Ignore the silly-arse construct!" Reg yelled. "Next up! More lovely little videos featuring AC/DC! The Sex Pistols! Spinal Tap! On Big-Time TV!"

The music cut off abruptly as Edison got to the open door, and he sagged in relief. He peered up into the bus and could see Dominique stabbing her cigarette holder at the back, beyond his view. "Reg!" she shrieked. "You have to tape that again!"

"Dom!" Reg bellowed back, "You can take 'em out now!"

"What?!" She paused. "Oh! Fine!" With that, she plucked out the pair of rhinestone-studded earplugs she'd been sporting beneath her improbable pile of hair. "You should have said so!"

"Edison!" Max caroled, "aren't we having fun?!"

"Edison?!" Dominique shrieked, fumbling her earplugs and whirling around to stare down the bus stairs.

In an instant, she was joined by a pair of curious eyes set in a craggy face beneath a thinning white mohawk. "Why Edison Carter!" Reg shouted, "Well, well, well! To what do we owe the honor, squire?!"

"I'm --!" Edison started to shout back. "Er, wait, can we stop yelling?"

"Yes!" Dominique yelled. Then in a hoarse whisper, she said, "I mean, of course we can."

"On that that _that_ note," Max said, "now it's t,t,t,time to say to say goodbye to aaaaall our companyyy!" He vanished from the terminal he'd been occupying.

"What on earth was that all about?" Dominique said wonderingly, while Reg pounded Edison on the shoulder not holding up the vidicam. "Just about to sit down and have us some nutritious Alphabetti Spaghetti," he said, "I'll find an extra bowl!"

"No, Reg, that's not why I --"

"What? You need help with something again?" Reg said.

"Yes. Well, not exactly," Edison began. "Look, first off, why are you even _out_ here anyway?"

"Mysterious doings are afoot, my son," Reg said, tapping a finger to the side of his nose. "Best to wait 'em out."

"What he means is that some strange types have been flashing credit tubes -- in the Fringes! Like anyone has a port for them there! -- and asking questions about _us,_" Dominique said, pulling down a can of soup from the shelf. "Publicity is wonderful," she stated loftily, "but paparazzi are not."

"Paparazzi my petunia!" Reg snorted. "Looked more like law to me. So we hoofed it. Well, trouble dies down, no matter what it is. Not a bad time, anyroad, I'd some overdue repairs."

"Well, about that, Reg," Edison tried again -- but Dominique had looked up from her can-opener just then and noticed the green light on Edison's vidicam.

"Oh, Theora!" she cried. "Are you here as well?"

"Hallo Dominique," Theora responded warmly through the link. "This is Control, yes."

"Oh -- _Oh._ I see! That was an interview technique, right? You already knew!" Dominique clapped her hands, delighted. "Reg, they're doing a story on _us_. At last!"

"Oh really?" Reg said, shooting him a blank look. "You're interested in Big-Time's programming, is it? Well, I must say, that's something of a surprise coming from Network 23, considering --"

"That's not exactly --"

"Hold on, hold on," Dominique said, tugging down her skirt then patting her hair, "almost ready here." She dumped the entire can of soup into a bowl and dropped it down in front of Fang, who was lolling underneath her desk.

"Dom, love, Fang's a dog of discrimination, 'e's not going to eat unless I feed 'im,"

"Forget the dog," Dominique said, adjusting the revolving Big-Time globe on her desk and then giving the thumb's up: "All right, ready! Roll 'em!"

Edison sighed, and moved over the eyepiece. "Control, can we go live?"

"No, Edison. We can go to tape."

"Wait, what?" Edison said, as Dominique wilted.

"Max is on right now," Theora told him. Over the link, they could now hear Max saying, "Live and direct! I'm Max Headroom, and this is a verrrry special segment of the _Edison Carter Show_! Wh,wh,where are they now, you ask? Well, I Want to Know, Too! F,f,first up, we take another look at rrrrodent control, aka haute cuisine, on the Fringe! Special sauce rec,recommendations and other c,c,c,ooking tips from Master Chef B,b,b,blank Archie, _live_ from his stall's TV! Helloooo there Aaaaarchie!"

"He took over the network feed a few moments ago," Theora said. "As you can hear, he doesn't appear to be interested in yielding the floor."

"Max!" Edison said, exasperated. "What is his problem today?"

Murray's voice cut in. "You know network policy, Edison. Max gets priority. Even over you."

"Yeah, I _know_ that, Murray," Edison snapped. "Fine. Tape it then."

"Go ahead, Edison."

Reg, who'd been watching all this with amusement, said, "Right, now for the Big-Time tour? Over there," he pointed, "you see the front of the bus, and our lovely and talented hostess, Dominique." As she waggled her fingers at Edison, Reg turned in place, "And over here . . . why, it's the back of the bus!" He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. "Very cozy indeed."

"I'm the business manager of Big-Time TV," Dominique said, jerking Edison's lens back in her direction and smiling stiffly into the camera. "Also the Programming Negotiator, Advertising Coordinator, Script Writer As Necessary, and Accounts Payable and Receivable."

"And the Occasional Opener of Cans," Reg noted. "As you know, I'm the Blank Reg, owner and operator. And Fang 'ere," he leaned down and cooed, "is our ever-popular celebrity video jock, aren't you? Yes, yes, you are." Fang waved his tail once lazily, without bothering to look up. Reg straightened and rubbed his hands together. "Right then, on to the programming!"

"You do regular programming here?" Edison asked, curious in spite of himself.

"Indeed we do!" Reg roared. "Well, all right, semi-regular. An erratic schedule, but a varied one! Step this way to our state-of-the-art network broadcast center!" He leaned back against the wall of tangled cables and the shelf of stacked betatape machines. He thumped the top deck and blew the coating of dust in the air -- they all waved and choked. Then he poked the button to raise the tray, jerking out the plastic cassette to wave it cheerily. "Big-Time TV, for the finest in viewer-supplied television!

"Mainly, we rock-and-roll as man is meant to do, but we do run a few regular programs 'ere. For instance, _Reading Revolution!_ Morning edition with Mink -- that's for the kiddies, what with 'er bein' one -- and the evening hour with Frances." He grinned. "Slightly more of your adult flavor there." He leaned over and tugged out a box and lifted a flap: "Free workbooks for the shows. Distribution center right 'ere."

"We've met," Edison said, "I mean, Frances and Mink."

"Well, then, there you go, mate," Reg said, nodding to himself. "I'm sure you agree, both very easy on the eyes. Your dry educational content goes down easier with a spoonful of the all-right, dunnit?" He poked at another deck, and continued, "We've a few nighttime dramas -- _Eviction Notice_ and _Consternation Street_." He screwed up his face momentarily. "Terrible acting, yet still superior to one's larger network fare. We've _Blank Out,_ daily news update program -- we accept that one by live direct feed, no tape. Some bloke calling himself 'Arvey Wallbanger links it in from god-knows-where," he shrugged, "'aven't asked, don't want to know. We do the daytime chat show for the ladies live, too, that's _Credit-Free with Dominique_. All very ironical and postmodern in that the Dominique in question _refuses to give up her bloody credit tube_ \--"

"Over my dead body," she snarled.

"A point of contention," Reg acknowledged with a sniff. "And finally, _Blank Bruno's Hour of Elegance,_ a weekly hobbyist do-it-yourself show, mostly reruns. He only tapes new episodes when he's 'inspired,' you see."

"_Bruno_ does a hobby show?" Edison said, intrigued.

"Absolutely!" Reg shouted, pumping a fist in the air; then he rattled off rapidly, "Easy TV disassembly, installing off-switches, neutralizing two-way cards and securicams, resetting your viewer voting card, private security icewalls, building and installing broadcast recorders, tapping into domestic subframes to create personal computers --"

"Theora, stop taping!" Murray's voice cut in by netlink. "Edison, damn it, you know we can't air this."

"Yeah," Reg finished smugly, "I figured that."

"Control," Edison said, sighing, "I'll get back with you. Carter out." He flicked off the link switch.

"So," Reg said, "what's this really all about then?"

"We're not going to be a feature?" Dominique said, face falling.

"Dom, my peerless pearl, you attacked 'im like a pitbull on entry. That's supposed to be Our Fang's job. Never got a chance to speak 'is piece, now did 'e?"

She made a rude gesture at Reg, and Edison lifted off the vidicam and gave her a wry look. "Sorry, Dominique. But yes, what I really wanted was to talk to you about your overnight broadcast."

Dominique and Reg exchanged a baffled look.

* * *

  
**   
_(10) 00110001 00110000_   
**

"'Return it to its owners,' he said. A _baby._ Damn it, Bryce," Edison muttered, jerking him along by the grip clenched in the shoulder of Bryce's sweater vest. "Control! Theora!" he shouted at the vidicam crammed under his other arm.

"This is Control," her voice informed him calmly. "Edison, I still can't access the interior of the Network 66 tower."

"I know, I know," Edison said. "Did you guys see what _else_ I found in the boardroom from hell?" He gave Bryce's shoulder another jerk, hauling him bodily into the waiting elevator, and Bryce slid over the slick floor.

"Yes, Edison, I did," she said, "listen to me --"

"Later!" Edison cut her off. "We've got to get out of here first. Grossberg's about two seconds from setting loose his security goons." He shoved Bryce at the elevator wall. "Push the goddamn button for the lobby, Bryce."

Bryce scrabbled at the keypad. "Edison," he began, but Edison ignored him.

"Control, outside -- is Rik here yet?"

"I'm picking him up a block from the building," she responded immediately. "He should already be there by the time you exit."

"Great, that's fine, that's --" Edison took a few deep breaths, watching the numbers over the door flick through the changes of floor. "Hey, pretty nostalgic, huh, Bryce," he said. "Only this time, if this elevator goes free-fall, you're going down with me."

Bryce flinched. "He wouldn't --"

"Edison," Theora said sharply.

"Of course he would," Edison snarled. "I'm blowing my entire stake here on a bet that we'll make it to the ground floor because Grossberg is holding out for another shot at your ass."

"Edison!" Theora repeated.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I'm a department head, I've got every right to negotiate my own --"

"Shut, up, Bryce," Edison ground out. He flicked the vidicam link off, and slapped his hand into the elevator wall a hair's breath from Bryce's face. Bryce shrank away. "What'd he offer you, Bryce? Huh? More credits? All the toys you ask for? So you're leaving 23 for that? You're leaving _Max?_" Bryce bit his lip, and Edison, who was used to Bryce's tells, didn't miss it. "I get it. So he told you that you could take Max with you," he said. Then he leaned into Bryce's space and murmured, "Guess again, Bryce. Max is _not yours._"

"Max Headroom is _my_ project --"

"Max is _me,_ Bryce," he cut him off. "If this goes to network court, I'll win. The viewers on _Face the Jury_ will vote for Edison Carter, not you -- and sure as _hell_ not Network 66. If I have to, I'll have Max purged from the 23 mainframe."

"You . . ." Bryce stared at him, aghast, "you wouldn't do that."

"Wrong." He cuffed Bryce's head and said, "Maybe you better reconsider some of that 'superfulous data' you've been discarding up here lately, Bryce. 'Cause we've already been there, me and Max. With the Vu-Age Church. We've already made this decision."

Bryce apparently _had_ forgotten that. Or maybe Edison was right, he'd just decided to forget. "Don't," he said, sliding down the wall. "Don't take Max, I need --"

The elevator's unctuous voice interrupted him: "Ground floor. Lobby." The door slid open smoothly to reveal the endless expanse of glass and marble, now filled with 66 security, armed to the teeth with stun weapons. No one moved, but the threat seemed to hang in the air.

Edison grabbed Bryce by the arm and yanked him back to his feet. He flicked the vidicam's link back to life, catching Theora mid-sentence, ". . . not getting any response."

"I'm here, Control," Edison said, "we're still in the elevator, but we're at the lobby. We're getting ready to exit the building."

"Edison! There you are! We lost your link for several minutes," Theora said. "Proceed to the door. The rickshaw will be at the curb in front to your right, one-half meter. I'm tracking a Metropolice patrol on the street as well."

Murray's voice cut in on the link: "Edison, listen. We do not need a network war, here. Don't antagonize anyone else. There shouldn't be any trouble if you simply walk out of the building. I don't know where they got the information, but we're picking up transmissions from reporters from a few other networks en route. "

To Bryce, whose arm he was still gripping, Edison said, "Like the man said, here's how this'll work. You don't talk. You stay with me, we walk out of here, down to the doors. You get that?"

"Fine," Bryce said stiffly, adjusting his sweater and tie.

"Roger that, Control. We're leaving now," Edison said. "We'll see you back at 23."

Outside, they found that Rik was already waiting at the curb, his lanky length drapped over his motorbike. "Well well, Ed-i-son," he drawled, pushing his sunglasses up his nose and eyeing the security detail that had followed on their heels from the main doors. "Rescuing another princess from a dragon? One pumpkin coach, at your service."

"Get in," Edison snapped, pushing Bryce into the rickshaw and dumping his vidicam onto the seat. As Edison scrabbled in his pocket for cash notes, Rik waved breezily at the 66 building security. "Most direct route back to 23 you can manage," Edison muttered, shoving the paper into Rik's palm. "Then we've got a baby to collect. Look, I really owe you for this."

Rik patted his shoulder. "So give a hoot, don't pollute." And, with that, he turned away, kicked his bike into a roar, pulled out onto the street.

As the rickshaw weaved through the afternoon traffic, Bryce hunkered down against the side; unaccustomed to it all, Bryce was obviously finding the glassy corporate towers, the crowds on the pavements, and the racket of motors and passing TVs oppressive. And it only served him right, to Edison's mind.

"Bryce," Edison said.

Bryce spared him one long, resentful look, then shut his eyes and ignored him.

"Bryce," Edison repeated, insistent. "Look. Do you even understand what's really going on here? Grossberg's a snake. He's only interested in taking down Network 23. You're nothing but a mouse snack to him."

"You're the one who doesn't understand," Bryce told him. "You don't understand _anything._"

"So why don't you try explaining, once in a while? Because your brains aren't all that Grossberg's after, kid. He's . . . hell, how do I put this? He _likes_ little boys, Bryce."

"I see." He opened his eyes and gave Edison a long, scathing look. "You're _saving_ me from being molested. Gosh. Thanks so much."

"Wait a minute. You _knew_ about that?"

Bryce rolled his eyes. "As the CEO at Network 23, he's the one who originally purchased my contract. I've known Mr. Grossberg a lot longer than I've known you. So what do _you_ think? That was rhetorical, by the way. What you think isn't actually relevant data." Bryce waved all of it away as extraneous. "We covered this type of employment interface in pod, Edison. The key is to set and maintain manageable parameters so that it doesn't interfere with your research."

"Manageable . . . parameters?" Edison's entire train of thought derailed. Rik's back was quivering suspiciously.

"Of course. Mr. Grossberg's behavior is fairly stable. Well, that's relatively, in comparison with the data on file for the known predilections of the executives at other corporations. That makes him simple to predict and program. His only interests are looking and touching."

"You covered this stuff in _school?_" Edison said, appalled. "ACS has a lot to answer for, is what I'm thinking."

"Where else would I learn it?" Bryce asked, seeming genuinely curious.

"Well, from . . ." Edison floundered.

"Watching Pornoviz?" Bryce asked. "Well, I do have access to all competing networks' broadcasts, so --"

"Jesus momad, Bryce! From your parents!"

"Oh." As Bryce considered that for a moment, Edison realized how callous he'd just been. "The Metro system must have a record of their current location," Bryce told him. "It's only been six years, so they might be willing to interface. I could consult with them if you think that it's necessary."

Rik glanced back over his shoulder. "Your princess is a little weird," he said.

"No one's asking the pumpkin's opinion," Edison snapped. "Just . . . forget it, Bryce. I'm sorry I said that. You don't have to look for your parents if that's not what you want to do."

"Whatever." Bryce settled back, satisfied. "Well, since my contract negotiations with 66 have apparently been terminated, my contract with 23 remains in force. Cheviot already promised to increase my budget if I return, so there was never any need to manhandle me _or_ threaten my projects."

"Yeah, well," Edison said, looking away. "I guess I got carried away. Sorry about that."

Bryce had already turned his attention to warily eyeing the street around them. "So," Edison said at last, "what did you mean by that, when you said there was data on file of, uh, 'known predilections'? Data where?"

"Oh, that. The Academy collects extensive data on corporate and network employees. Those persons its graduates may need to interface with," Bryce told him. "It's the duty of every alumnus to regularly link updated information to the data base."

"What?" Edison said. "You mean like --"

"It collates factors such as employment, family, personality, preferences, behavioral observations, that sort of thing," Bryce said. At Edison's incredulous look, he asked, "What's wrong with that? These variables are only useful to prepare for contract negotiations. It has no other logical use."

"Are you joking?" Edison said. "What you're describing is the ultimate blackmail collection, Bryce!"

"Yeah, and I bet those kids get _real_ cushy jobs," Rik said over his shoulder.

"Wait. Does that mean -- uh," Edison said, suddenly uncomfortable, "how about me?"

"I never interfaced with anyone but cleaning staff and board members at Network 23 until you broke into my department," Bryce said. "I've been forced to start a lot of new Academy files. I may win an alumni citation for the volume of my new data contributions this year."

"Wonderful," Edison muttered. Rik shook his head.

* * *

  
**(11) 00110001 00110001**

"Network 66 Research and Development Department, all our lines --" Bryce stabbed the bypass on the Network 66 reception recording. "I've secured the link," he said, "Do your end, too."

Jenny's round face, filling his vidiphone screen, looked surprised. "Oookay." He listened for the tell-tale beeps. "Wow, two interfaces in one year, Bryce, you're getting downright chat--"

"I don't have time for this," he cut her off, then he kicked himself mentally and recited in a rush, "I mean, uh, how are you? How's your . . . uh, cat? That thing's a cat, right?"

She blinked and leaned closer to the screen to peer at him. "Who _are_ you?"

"C'mon," Bryce said, his face feeling hot.

"Ooookay," she breathed. "We're fine, thanks. But, seriously Bryce, are _you_ feeling okay?"

"Fine," he said. "Jenny, are we having a network war? Don't you think I should have been _informed?_"

She sat back from the screen. "Uh. I'm pretty sure we're not? I mean, other than the usual?"

"Then explain the purpose of the clipvids," he snapped.

"What clipvids? Uh, Bryce, am I supposed to know what --?"

"Those clipvids that Big-Time TV has been showing," he said impatiently. "I know at least one of them's yours."

She looked at him, wary. "That's a serious charge, Bryce." But then she grinned. "Now why would you think that?"

Bryce rubbed his eyes under his glasses, feeling suddenly tired. "I don't think it, I know it. And I know where you got that Edison Carter footage."

Jenny pursed her lips and didn't say a word.

"So if you want to avoid trouble, deal with this. Eldon over at Q System 7 can erase the buyer data, but you've got to do the rest. Jenny, get rid of those telecine reels, and dump any tape."

"Bryce," she said, now looking less amused, "let's posit, strictly for the sake of data clarification, that there were such a clipvid and that I made it -- why should I purge my work?"

"You're kidding," Bryce said startled. "Is this really about competing with Network 23?"

"What? No! Of course not! It's about insufficient data, Lynch. Any fan of Edison Carter would give their left lobe for this kind of tape." She frowned. "I put a lot of time into developing those video effects. You're asking me to destroy the product of my own research. Would _you?_"

"No, of course not!"

"I rest my case."

"Listen, Jenny, that reel came from the Mind's Eye assets auction," Bryce said. "Do you know how they _made_ that?"

"Of course," she said sternly. "_I_ never miss the _Edison Carter Show_."

Bryce, who seldom bothered to watch Edison's show, shifted guiltily under her gaze. "The canisters say 'Paddy Ashton,' don't they? Well, what you probably _don't_ know is that he was one of the victims mentioned on the show. Their recording process killed that guy." Bryce pinched the bridge of his nose. "And, um, actually, since he met Edison right before he died, he probably had him on his mind, so you're probably even, uh . . . using the recording he died in."

"Oh." She blinked rapidly. "_Oh._ Eeeuw."

"Plus, Edison Carter is kinda losing it here."

"He's _seen_ it?" she said, aghast.

"You transmitted it to Big-Time TV for their overnight!" Bryce said. "You didn't think anyone would _see_ it?"

"The only people who were going to notice it were other fans," she said.

Bryce sighed. "Theora -- that's his Controller -- said he's already over grilling Blank Reg at Big-Time. They're friends, you know." He shook his head. "Jenny, he's really persistent. If we can't divert him, he's not going to give up until he's tracked down who made that clipvid."

"Edison Carter's Passion for the Truth. It's part of his charm," she said faintly, looking pale behind the glass.

Bryce rolled his eyes. "So Murray -- that's his producer -- told Theora that Network 23 was already trying to get him to target clipvids for a feature investigation. Like I said, if he finds out that Network 66's research and development has been pirating 23 transmissions . . . with him. Like _that_. He's not really what you'd call _fond_ of Network 66."

"I'll destroy the film," she said quickly.

"No!" Bryce took a breath. "No, _don't_ destroy it. If you made any copies that you're storing on 66's system, yeah, erase those, but send the canisters to me. If I can show him physical proof that they're out of circulation, maybe explain the mistake without bringing 66 into it, I can probably talk him into backing off the clipvid story."

"You'd do that?" she said. "For me?"

"For everybody," he said, gritting his teeth. "I have my own work to do, you know. I can't get anything done while everyone's bugging me to do theirs."

"Oookay. I'll send them over by private courier right now," she said. "In return . . . you get me Edison Carter's autograph. We'll call it even datashare."

"Done," Bryce said. "I'll ask Edison to come up to my studio."

"Wait, wait," she said hastily. "Bryce, all this sounds like you _know_ Edison Carter."

Bryce pushed up his glasses, confused. "I made Max, didn't I?"

"No, I mean, uh, know as in talk-to know?"

"Pffth. Of course."

"Of course, he says! Bryce, this is huge! _I_ work for Network 66, but I'm not on a first-name basis with the cast of _Porky's Landing,_ ohhhh, well, not that I'd _want_ to be, that show's so awful, isn't it? but . . ."

Bryce snorted. "It's not that great. He comes in here _all the time._ I mean, he doesn't even link ahead, he just walks right in whenever he feels like it!" He scowled, just thinking about it. "He's always _touching_ my equipment. You have no idea how annoying it is. I've had to create games to distract him so he doesn't fool with my important projects, and sometimes he sits in here for _hours_ at night playing them. Uh, not that he's ever managed to beat _my_ high scores, nothing like that," he amended hastily, in case she got the wrong idea. "It's too bad the local subframe of his apartment's domestics system is only powerful enough for basic housekeeping. It doesn't have enough power to just optiport the games over there."

"You've used his domestic system," she said faintly.

"In this apartment? Of course." That memory brought back other grievances. "And, I might add, he's got a perfectly serviceable bathroom, with a shower and everything, there. So why does he use all of _my_ bubble bath? And what about my toothbrush?" he demanded.

Jenny squeaked.

He peered at her. "What?"

"Nothing!"

"So, anyway, like I said, obviously this Edison thing of yours is ridiculous," he said, crossing his arms.

"Oh, Bryce," she sighed happily. "You're still unique."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he snapped.

"Ohhh, it's not a bad thing," she said airily. "I'll send over the cans right now. Make sure that autograph's _personalized._ Interface with ya later, Bryce."

* * *

  
**(12) 00110001 00110010**

"_The Off-Ramp?_" Reg was saying, surprised. "What about it? It's more of the viewer supplied. We don't watch it ourselves -- need me beauty sleep, don't I?" He tugged Fang out from under the desk and lifted him and the soup bowl to the back of the bus, where he levered them down to the floor. "Have a seat, my son," he said, gesturing to the floor beside him.

"What, you're saying you guys don't watch your own programming?" Edison said, dropping down to sit beside him.

"Special case," Dominique said, lighting another cigarette. "We have a receiver on the roof. Anyone can link in content for a few hours every day, and we record it. First come, first taped. We load up the decks in sequence and run them overnight."

"Anyone?" Edison said, surprised.

"Anyone, everyone, no questions asked. And why not?" Reg said, spooning soup from the bowl and holding it out for Fang. "Fun for all! Mind you, once in a great while I give it a glance, but I find it usually requires 80-proof lubrication."

"Would you, uh, happen to have any of those --"

"Sure, go ahead, cue him up an _Off-Ramp,_ Dom, love," Reg said pushing out a tattered woven laundry basket filled with jumbled tapes from the corner beside him. As she plucked a cassette from the top, Reg asked him, "Now, care to explain the sudden interest?"

"One of your viewers sent in content featuring, uh, me," Edison said. "I think that might explain why the sudden interest in you from outside the Fringes."

"Really? What sort of content would this be?" Reg said with a frown.

"A clipvid --"

"Right, right, we do get those mixed in with the rest," he said nodding. "But I don't see --"

"Reg," Dominique prompted, as the terminal on a nearby ledge blared to ear-shattering life, featuring gyrating teenagers with guitars.

"Ah! 'Ere we are, then!" Reg shouted. "Basement band! Bloody awful from the sound of it! Dom, want to skim this?!"

She did -- and shrieked, "Oh lord, not him again!" A pudgy, naked man with a bag over his head was performing an odd dance in the middle of what looked to be an expensively furnished private study.

"Ah, yes, the Private Dancer," Reg said, "he does pop up periodically, or so I'm told. Harmless bit of exhibitionism."

"Harmless?" Edison said. "My eyes are bleeding."

"Skim, skim," Dominique chanted, scrabbling at the button. "Oh, this is worse . . ."

A stiff-looking man in a dark-blue suit, white shirt, black tie and horn-rimmed glasses was clutching a keyboard and intoning, "--ver forget, ours shall be the employment, forever and ever, and we of the All Blue must be faithful and ever wary of the Enemy, who shall be known by their fruity symbol, lest we be left behind when the redemption of superior sales and marketing comes --

"TV preacher," Reg said, amused, "skim, Dom, skim."

They skimmed through more basement bands, a woman performing magic tricks with a rabbit, then landed on an older segment of the _Edison Carter Show_ on underground nuclear waste.

"Hardly a surprise, there. You've got fans, my son. They save the ones they want everyone to see again."

"Huh," Edison said, feeling the compliment.

Then another of the basement bands and another; a group of drunks in a corridor of the Ouzo Bar attempting to form a pyramid; a woman demonstrating how to cook soy burgers 'just like mom's'; a duo delivering a dramatic dialogue then offering resumes and headshots; and finally, a clipvid based on _Lumpy's Proletariat._

"No," Edison said, shaking his head, "this clipvid wasn't in the group we watched."

"We've a whole basket 'ere," Reg said. "Your clipper could be on any of them. More than one even."

Edison thumped his head back against the wall. "Reg . . ."

"What's in this clipvid that's got you all riled up?"

"Oh, just a little nudity involving me --" Edison said.

"Really?" Dominique said, perking up and eyeing the basket.

"-- and somebody else," Edison finished.

"Like that, is it?" Reg said sympathetically. "Securicam footage?"

"No," Edison said. "It doesn't actually ring any bells with me. Some kind of video manipulation. I'm not sure. I thought at first that Bryce had --"

"Your Bryce Lynch?" Dominique said, surprised. "You think he'd do something like that?"

"He's not _my_ \-- well, no, I guess he wouldn't," Edison said doubtfully. "I don't know what to think."

"Well, I suppose at one time he might have," Dominique muttered.

Edison stared at her. "What was that?"

"You didn't know?" Reg exchanged a look with Dominique. "Think we were both rather surprised when you brought him in here, that time," he said. "Rather different impression than I'd been expecting, I must admit."

"Why's that?" Edison said. "You didn't know Bryce before, did you?"

"Not as such," Reg said, scrubbing his head. "We knew _of_ 'im. Kept shutting down our operations, fair regular. Right little bastard."

"Oh lord," Dominique groaned, "even that time we had everything turned off and --"

"Weaseled in by our vidiphone link," Reg said, shaking his head. "Wiped all the data we 'ad that wasn't stored on tape. We were down for two weeks after that."

"_Bryce_ did this?" Edison said, stunned.

"Started three years ago," Dominique said. "The trades said 23 had acquired its very own R&amp;D Academy kiddie a few months before, so we wondered."

"That CEO of yours, wossname --"

"Grossberg," Dominique said, rolling her eyes. "Don't we love him."

"Yeah, 'im. All's fair, I know, I know, but that wanker -- not interested in 'ealthy competition," Reg said, "more like grinding us under heel. An' what's our option, I ask you? Shout for the Metros? Pity I'm more for the engineering," Reg added in a confidential tone. "Well, and the 'eadbangin' naturally."

"Naturally," Edison agreed. "You sound pretty certain now that it was 23."

"Bruno traced it back," Dominique said.

"Bruno?"

"Right, right. See," Reg said, "one day Bruno -- complete stranger, mind -- just waltzes in from god knows where with 'is own equipment. Sits right down, sets up, slaps back 23's cracker back on his heels. So we've some tasty ice now that's nipped our invasions in the bud." Reg leaned over and added sotto voce, "Bit squirrely, our Bruno, has these long chats with that toad of 'is. But he knows 'is stuff." He spooned out some more soup and crooned, "'Ere you go, Fang, a bit more Alphabetti Spaghetti for my darling."

"So, does that mean Bryce is still doing this?" Edison said.

"What? Nah nah. Think we'd 'ave give him free run of our palatial abode if he were? Stopped about -- what's it been, Dom?"

"About a year back," she said, pausing for a drag on her cigarette holder. "Likely due to that shakeup in your boardroom. Or he finally found some _other_ way to occupy his time." Then she leaned over and purred, "You know, it's always the small and cute ones, isn't it? Sooo aggressive."

Edison stared at her, perplexed. "OK, so if it's not Bryce, that leaves the problem of who it really is. If the media's looking for you two, it doesn't sound like anyone but Bryce managed to record that broadcast."

"And we could make a tidy bit of credit selling it, if we find the proper tape, that it?" Reg said gently. Dominique sighed lustily, and Reg said, "Look. You've been a good mate, done us a few favors, we've done you a few, so let's keep the ball rolling along, eh?" He nudged the basket with his foot. "We tape over these throughout the month, but I'm thinking you'll not want to take the chance of the wrong one coming back into rotation by accident. So take 'em, erase 'em, bring 'em back when you're done."

"_Or_ just pay for new ones," Dominique said eyeing Reg. "Those are older than IBM."

"All right," Edison said, relieved. "New tapes then. Thank you."

"Can't help with the clipper's copy though," Reg pointed out.

"Look, is there any way to identify the source of one of these transmissions your receiver picks up?"

"Hmm," Reg said. "Perhaps so. We'd need a tracker module." He glanced at Edison. "Tell you right now, though. Some of that's network source, not the home-brewed variety. And it's not being sent by antenna -- it's piggy-backing on Netsat signals. Most those clipvids come that way. Takes a lot more memory storage to work with those than a domestic system hack can handle."

"_Network_ source?" Edison said, staring at him. "_What?_"

"Our audience," Dominique said, pulling herself up proudly, "is wider than you think."

"Or maybe it's not paranoia if they're really out to get you, mate," Reg said jovially. "Speaking of," he said, pointing at the blinking light on the vidicam, "yours wants a word, looks like."

When Edison flipped the switch, Theora said, briskly, "Control to Edison Carter, please confirm your status."

"I'm here, Theora," Edison said, "listen, I've got a lead on --"

"We've already located the source," she said abruptly. "You're coming in from the field, Murray's order. Barry's ETA to your location is approximately 10 minutes."

"Theora --"

"Control out."

They all three stared at the dead link, astonished. "Well," said Dominique at last, "that wasn't terribly enlightening, was it?"

"No," said Edison, "it wasn't."

* * *

  
**(13) 00110001 00110011**

Edison had never seen the door to Research and Development left open to the corridor like this, but he chose to interpret it as a hopeful sign as he strolled into the lab. Bryce's larger, orange parrot -- both the live one on the perch and its computer construct, now occupying the main monitor -- spotted him first, and they squawked raucously, flapping their wings.

Bryce, who'd been leaning against the stool in front of that monitor, was feeding slivers of cracker to the smaller green parrot that was gripping his fingers. He turned, looking flustered, "Edison," he said, "you're --"

"Bryce, hey," Edison said, "Theora said you had something to give me?"

Bryce stared at him silently for a few moments, then he stood abruptly and carefully assisted the green parrot onto the perch beside the other. "Yes, I do, in fact, I --"

"That's fine," Edison said, holding up a hand, "but hang on a minute. I need to explain, all right?"

"OK." Bryce sat back and folded his arms, his expression neutral.

"Listen, back there, I kind of lost my temper," he said, "my first thought was that you'd used that data rescan program to make that video."

"Kind of," Bryce echoed.

"But, see, then I realized that what you'd said was true. That program wasn't really far enough along to do it that well."

Bryce's expression fell into a frown. "Well. Excuse me for not having sufficient time to work on it," he said. "That's related to all of the interruptions I've experienced over the past --"

"That's not -- just let me finish the whole confession part here, Bryce, OK?"

"There's _more?_"

"Well, yeah," Edison said, rubbing the back of his neck. "See, my _second_ thought, which seemed even more likely after Reg told me it was probably a network-generated clipvid, was that you'd pulled it out of Max's memory, and --"

Bryce's eyes went wide. "You think I'd --"

"I didn't know _what_ to think, that's what I'm telling you here, Bryce!" But Bryce was now looking at him in a narrow, assessing way that didn't bode well. "Look, what I'm trying to _say_ here, Bryce, is that when I _thought_ about it, it didn't make any sense. The only face you can see in the video is mine. I mean, I do remember who I've slept with, so that meant --"

"Good to know," Bryce said, "considering there were so many."

"I knew it," Edison said, stabbing a finger at him. "You _have_ been going through Max's memory."

"Of course I have," Bryce said flatly. "I had to. After he was first constructed, initially many areas of his memory were fragmented and had to be reintegrated." He added, "The sexual experiences were stored in sectors 258,963 onward on the --" he broke off, "it's not important. He's moved all of them since then."

"Moved them where?" Edison said, uneasily.

"Elsewhere. If you really want to access specific memories, then ask _him,_" Bryce said. "Just like I have to."

"You mean you can't just --"

"Not without a significant amount of work, which I don't consider an appropriate use of my time." Bryce pulled off his glasses and began polishing them on the hem of his shirt. "Edison. Granted, my knowledge of these types of social adjustment is based largely on pod simulations at the Academy, but I'm certain this doesn't fit any of the standard templates for an apology. So I don't know what it is."

"Bryce, just hang on, I'm not finished yet."

Bryce shook his head. "I am," he said, ducking his head to shove his glasses in place and to adjust them. Then he made a curt gesture toward the metal grating that partially hid his bedroom alcove from view. "They're in there, under the bed. I suggest you take them with you now because I've asked Theora to not crack this iteration of my securicode. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do with the mainframe."

"Wait, Bryce, _what's_ under your bed? Theora didn't tell me --"

But Bryce simply brushed by him to walk down the short hall to the main door, then out into the corridor. The door shut with a firm, metallic clack behind him.

Both of the orange parrots, real and computer generated, tilted their heads to stare at Edison. "Stuuupid!" they squawked simultaneously.

"Thanks a lot," Edison growled at them. "Really. Today was only lacking that."

Bryce lived in his lab -- literally. What passed for his bedroom was an alcove that opened onto the main room, separated only by a sliding metal grate. Edison pushed the divider aside in its track; inside, it looked much the same as always: a single bed, and walls lined with shelving that were crammed with an assortment of toys, action figures, equipment parts, and small adjustable lights. Next to the bed were two small lab carts, one filling the role of bedside table and the other holding the netlink/vidiphone combination unit with mysterious extra attachments.

"Right," he said. Edison dropped to his knees beside the bed and hesitated before lifting up the blanket. "Any idea what's under here, Max?"

The monitor behind him replied, "B,based on our old beds? Dust bunnies, d,d,dead solders, d,dirty books --"

"Been lying low for any particular reason?" Edison said.

"You needed my _help_ to open m,m,mouth, insert foot? I res_pect_fully . . . decline," Max said.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Edison said, flipping up the blanket and leaning over to look. As it turned out, underneath Bryce's bed was nothing of interest -- it was unexpectedly dust-free and empty. All he could see was a bundle wrapped in Bryce's plaid bathrobe, which he hooked with his fingers and slid out. "Guess that's why he's not wearing it for a change," Edison muttered, pushing aside the flannel.

"And theeeere you have it," Max said.

Edison stared at the stack of familiar disk-shaped metal canisters. The fraying white cloth tape on the sides of each said, simply, "Paddy Ashton."

"I didn't have time to take these with me when we left," Edison said, numbly. "At Mind's Eye, I mean."

"We can p,put his and yours together for an evening of fun-filled Pornoviz p,p,p,programming."

"Max," he groaned.

"Ahh, so many waste,wasted bytes and opportun,tunities, the sordid tale of our mutual existence," Max said. He frowned. "_I'd_ rather watch _Porky's Landing_."

"So this was the source of those clips. Where the hell did Bryce get these?" Edison said. "He had them all along?"

"Aaaand another g,g,good deed wasted on Edison Carter. Bryce'll learn eveeeentually," Max said. "Or may,maybe he already has?"

"He got them from someone else," Edison finished. "All right. I get it."

"I wonder if you do do," Max was peering down at him from the monitor.

"What?" Edison said, hauling himself and the bundle onto the bed. When he stretched out across it, his head brushed the nearby ledge, dislodging a half-finished circuit board from the pile. He hastily crammed it back in beside the tools and a metal lunchbox that had pride of place on that shelf.

"Soldering in bed, a d,dangerous hab,habit," Max said in pious tones.

"I wouldn't know," Edison pointed out. "Listen, Max, since Bryce is apparently no longer speaking to me, would you mind telling me --"

"Why should he? Smoooooth, Edison, very very smooth," Max said. "You've slid our way out of _another_ one. Your score is now oh for how how many?"

"What are you babbling about, Max?" Edison said, rubbing his temple.

"_Vanna_ gave it three yeeears before she kicked us to the c,curb, but p,p,poor Bryce, aaaall of the trials but none of the t,treats since you're refusing to p,p,put out. Me? I'm shocked, _shocked_ he even gave us _one_ year."

"I'm not dating Bryce, Max."

"Hmm hmm! Then what d,_do_ you craaazy kids call it these days? I mean, I'm supposed to be the free free spirit around here, b,but _you're_ the one making free with his _toothbrush._"

"He got another one," Edison protested.

"Someone is missing the p,p,point. I'm ashamed to say that it's _me._ Ahhh, we can be vedy vedy vedy dense. Edison Carter -- holding out for hearts! Flowers! Flying c,c,crockery!"

"Maaaax," he groaned. "I'm not discussing this with you."

"Edison," Max said, "may I be . . . serious?" With that, he screwed up his face like he'd eaten a basket of lemons. Long seconds crawled by.

Edison gave up. "Max. Stop being serious. Please."

"Ahhhh!" His face collapsed back to normal. "What a _relief!_" Then he said, "Theora has made it p,p,perfectly clear she will _never_ date her operative. In case you haven't fig,figured it out, that's _you_. She finds us hand,handsome, charming, witty! -- as she should! -- but, alas, she p,p,p,prefers grownups. Named Ted."

"Max," he protested, "I haven't even asked her out! Well, not exactly asked her out . . ."

"Why, Eddie," Max said, with a suspicion of a brogue, "you've had sooo much success sl,sleeping around the newsroom, have,haven't you now?"

"Max, you're out of line, damn it," Edison said, hand going automatically to the cans, "just leave him out of this, all right?"

"And it's never occuuuurred to you that some someone who makes her living as a C,Controller might _like_ c,c,control?" Max asked. He assumed a lofty expression. "Yes! That qual,quality of density, another part of our mmmysterious ch,charm."

"I just want, well, someone I can talk to about anything, including work --"

"Argue with?"

"_Discuss_ things."

"And share the d,d,discussion with _all_ your neighbors. Very generous,ous!"

"I don't argue with Theora, Max."

"You don't _argue_ with your Controller. With _Theora_, when she says 'jump,' you always s,s,say 'Why?' not 'How high?' I think I rec,rec,recognize this street! D,d,daddy, are we driving in a _circle?_" Before Edison could object, Max said, "How much do you know about The,theora?"

"Well, she's . . ."

"Friends? Fam,family? Hobbies?"

"She's adopted," Edison said. "She has a brother."

"Go on. Waiting!" Max made ticking noises as Edison scowled at him. "Waste not, want want not," Max concluded in pious tones, "half a sheet should take c,c,care of it."

"So what's your point here, Max?" Edison shouted at him. "Save me some time and just _get on_ with it."

"Edison," Max said simply, "_where_ do you spend _all_ your free time? For a fan,fantasy, you're throwing away the first stable relationship you've had in _yeeears._"

Edison heard the main door locks releasing, and the parrots began to squawk a greeting in the lab. "Damn," he said, "Max, I have to get out of here."

"Eeeedison!" Max sang.

"No. _No,_ Max. We are not even thinking about this!"

"We're not?"

"Sixteen, Max!"

"Going on sixty."

"More like going on six!"

"Uh," Bryce said, "what are you guys talking about?"

Edison sat up and saw that Bryce was leaning on the grating to the alcove.

"The p,p,price of eggs in New,New Tokyo," Max supplied immediately.

"Isn't it still point five credit per egg?" Bryce said, looking confused. "I can find out."

"No, Bryce," Edison said, "ignore Max. Listen, about these reels --"

Bryce shrugged and shuffled into the alcove. "A few links, a few shares I'd have done eventually anyway. I had some spare time."

"B,b,bryce had spare time! Stay tuned for rioting in the streets, for the end it is n,n,nigh."

Bryce ignored him, waving awkwardly at the canisters. "That old type of film stock isn't hard to destroy. The easiest, quickest way would be to rent some time in a crematorium."

"That'd be appropriate, I guess," Edison said. "I'll think about it. Look, would you mind if I just left them --?" he patted the bed.

"Edison," Bryce said, frowning. Edison waited for Bryce's automatic protests-in-vain, defending his time and his turf, but they didn't come. Seconds stretched into a minute, two minutes, three. Edison had an uneasy sense, for the first time, of what his life was going to look like with Bryce shutting him out. _Not_ helping him. Or entertaining him. Bryce would be locked away in the lab. If Bryce decided to take one of those contracts the other networks were always offering, Edison would get no say this time.

So maybe Edison _was_ thinking about it after all.

Bryce slumped back against the grating. "I guess," he said, sounding defeated. "They should be fine under there. Link when you want to pick them up. Housekeeping never looks under my bed. It's weird." He watched Edison carefully slide the bundle back underneath, then he flopped down to sit on the bed beside him -- bouncing himself and Edison a few inches into the air.

"Whoa!" Edison yelped, flailing in the aftershocks.

Bryce grinned. "It's great, isn't it? Extra bouncy."

"Actually, yeah, it is," Edison said wonderingly, putting some weight into the next drop, and nearly sending Bryce off the edge. "Where'd you get this?"

"I requisitioned it, of course," Bryce said. "It's actually part of my research into comparative mass and motion --"

"Stop, hold it!" Edison cut him off. "Let me enjoy now, and you can explain the scientific validity later."

"Fine, fine," Bryce said, bouncing again. On the terminal, Max began to whoop and demand that Edison give him his own turn.

"_You_ lack the necessary anatomy to appreciate it," Edison said.

"So so so? Isn't it time you _do_ something ab,b,b,bout it?" Max shot back.

Bryce, who'd hit the floor moments before, was now peering over the foot of the bed adjusting his glasses. "I've been thinking of getting a bigger mattress," he admitted. "But I don't think Max's portable unit would --"

"That's not what he meant," Edison said. He knew he was going to regret this, but the short-term reward could be worth it. "That recent memories update you wanted to do for Max . . ."

"You said no," Bryce pointed out.

"Yeah, I did. But this isn't really a yes/no binary area. It's one of those gray areas we've talked about, where changing your mind is always a possibility. I needed to think more about Max, about me, about me and Max. Me and . . . other people. You see what I mean?"

"No," Bryce said. "No idea."

"Let's just say that I've finally come around to the idea of Max sticking around a while."

"The Vu-Age Church will be d,d,delighted to hear it," Max agreed, grimacing.

Edison needed to find a way to frame his idea in Bryce Lynch terms. "So you had trouble helping Max distinguish between TV and real life. Uh, real-time and fantasy, right? If you add more memory data from me . . ."

"Well, yes," Bryce said, climbing back onto the bed. "But your new data would be stored separately. Rather than overwriting Max's _own_ new memories, he'd be able to select and integrate only the specific sectors he wants. It's part of the new decision functions I've installed; now that he has more experiential data of his own that's not shared with yours, he should be able to --"

"Would it help with that," Edison interrupted, "if you had your own data on a mutual experience for comparison?" He ignored Max's whoop of amusement. "I'd like to offer you an, uh, unparalleled research opportunity to -- let's call this expanding your personal parameters. And Max's as well."

Bryce tilted his head. "You know, I have no idea what you're --"

Edison leaned forward and kissed him, a light brushing of the lips. Bryce's reaction -- or rather, complete lack of one -- wasn't what Edison had expected at all. Bryce froze, eyes gone wide.

It was as good an opportunity as any. "And what I was _going_ to say before was that I was an idiot for doubting you, OK?" Edison said. "So maybe I should have just said that first." The apology was apparently wasted because Bryce didn't even blink.

Then Max yodeled, "Ground control to Mr. Lynch, come iiiiin Bryce!"

"-- talking about," Bryce said.

"I think he j,just reset to the default val,values," Max said.

"Bryce," Edison told him, "I just kissed you."

"Not possible." Bryce licked his lips. "That doesn't happen in real-time," he said firmly. "Which means it hasn't --"

"Wait," Edison said. "So it happens when? Fantasies with _me?_ Really?"

"No, I . . ." Bryce looked momentarily panicked. "Well, yes. But not exactly. It's more like . . ."

"Win-nah and still champion! I'm _truly_ irresistible!" Max burst out, delighted. "Thank you, thank you verrrah verrrah much."

"You've _got_ to be kidding," Edison said. But somehow it figured Bryce would find the thought of having sex with his software more exciting than the real thing. "I sure can pick 'em," he muttered.

Bryce looked annoyed. "Well, it's not like _you'd_ ever . . . except," his eyes went wide and unfocused again, "except you just . . . ?"

After a few more silent moments, Max observed, "Exxcellent work, Dr. Carter. The patient is nonresponsive. You've b,b,broken our Bryce."

"This is great," Edison sighed.

"May,maybe his file queue is overload,loaded?" Max suggested.

"Or he's just stuck in a loop." Edison grasped Bryce by the shoulder and gave him a hard shake.

"Uh," Bryce said, blinking at Edison and Max over the top of his glasses. "Uh?"

"In real-time, which this _is_," Edison told him, "you have a number of options right now. As Network 23's head of Research and Development, one of them is to have my ass fired, Mr. Lynch."

"Uh," said Bryce. "No?"

"No? Enough with the binaries, Bryce. No means what?"

"No means . . ." Then Bryce stirred, and drew himself up, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Naturally I'm aware of the theory and the visual models of, of . . . that. But the practical application of, of, I, uh." He stuttered to a halt. Finally he said, helplessly, "It seems unhygienic."

Which was all the reassurance Edison needed that Bryce was back online again. "Very," Edison agreed. "Very, very unhygienic. Let me demonstrate how much." He leaned in and ran the tip of his tongue along Bryce's lower lip, then a quick lick inside. He smiled when Bryce whimpered. "What else would you like me to do with my mouth, Bryce? I'm open to requests."

"I, I . . . wait! I have a pod floppy that deals with this type of relationship," Bryce said suddenly. "Let me just --"

"Gimme a little credit here, Bryce," Edison said, exasperated. "No pod files necessary."

"As _I_ told you, Bryce, Ed,Edison's more, _more_ than willing to share our use,useful data from misspent college years."

"A conversation I never want to hear about again," Edison retorted. "Speaking of which, Bryce," he said, "how's this going to read in that ACS file?"

"Wh,what? The Academy?" Bryce stared at him. Then he gulped and croaked, "I guess. Some information. Isn't strictly necessary to share?"

"That answer wins you a deluxe package tour," Edison said approvingly.

"Welcome to the Gray Area, Bryce Lynch," Max intoned. "P,p,please. Enjoy your stay."

Edison tried one last question, just to be certain: "Thing is, Bryce, I wouldn't want to keep you from your work."

"What?" Bryce said, fumbling off his glasses. "I, no, I mean, yes, but . . . Later! Of course it can wait." That had to be as close as Bryce would ever get to a heartfelt declaration of love. But god, Edison thought, without his glasses, Bryce really did look six. An impression that was instantly spoiled when Bryce added, "But you know, Edison, considering your advanced age, we ought to consider your biological limitations, such as prolonged refractory periods and --"

"I'm not even 30 yet, Bryce!" he pointed out testily. "If you're going to explore that particular limitation any more than you already have, it's not going to come up at all."

"Oh. Does that mean --?"

Edison sighed, and Max chirped, "Bryce, the g,g,grouchy old codger wants you to be a g,g,good boy and strip."

"Oh." Bryce bounced a few times. "Well. I can do that."

"Max, c'mon," Edison said, leaning over to tap on the glass with a knuckle. "You'll get all the detail you can download later. Go bother Control for a while. Redirect that View-phone over to the lab while you're at it."

"But but but," Max said.

"Max, I'm just saying, if you want optimum performance data, then consider what I _don't_ find particularly sexy."

"Good point. Network 23 skidoooo!" The terminal winked out and nothing replaced it.

**(14) 00110001 00110100**

When Edison woke up, he saw that Bryce was still right beside him, but had turned on the light by the side of the bed and was busily soldering on the circuit board. While Edison was pondering whether it was strictly safe to do that kind of thing in the nude, Bryce looked up. He said, cheerily, "Edison, that was better than Neurostim."

"You think?" Edison said.

"Oh, oh right, Max must have overwritten that data when he reuploaded your old memories," Bryce said. "But yeah, it's better. Plus I didn't feel any urge to stop for crunch fries."

"No ZikZak-sponsored station breaks?" Edison said. "Good to know."

"Absolutely," Bryce nodded. "I definitely want to do that more in future. At least once a month."

"Once a _month?_" Edison said.

"Unless we could arrange more," Bryce said hopefully. "When would you like to begin the negotiations?"

"Bryce, Bryce, no contract's needed here. Any time we're both free is fine. All you have to do is ask."

"Really?" He looked stunned. "But that's . . . that's excellent! Edison, is that a 'relationship'?"

"It's a reasonable facsimile, sure." Close enough for smartbombs and ScumBall, anyway. And in that respect, Edison thought it was pretty darn magnanimous of him not hold it against Bryce when he kept getting two names confused in flagrante.

"I'm glad to be in a relationship with you then," Bryce said, and he did look flatteringly pleased about it. "You know, I can't wait to get this new data uploaded to Max."

"Neither can I," muttered the vidspeaker on the ledge next to the bed.

"What did you say?" Bryce said.

"Nothing," Edison said, stretching out enough to accidentally smack it off to the floor.

"I think you're absolutely right, you know," Bryce said. "This additional two-way type data will help me a lot in compiling Max's new information."

"Th,three way, actually," muttered the speaker on the floor.

Edison buried his face in the pillow. "Bryce, you're unique."

"So people keep telling me," he said happily.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Written for: swtalmnd in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge  
> Disclaimer: Max Headroom (1987, ABC), produced by Chrysalis/Lakeside and Lorimar Productions. Thank you, Mauvecloud and Queasy, for the moral support and betaing.
> 
> (Yuletide [posted comments](http://www.yuletidetreasure.org/archive/47/flexibleparameters_cmt.html) \-- thank you! :)


End file.
